


Better the Devil You Know

by dracoismytrashson (JGogoboots)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, Gentle Dom Peter Hale, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Chris Argent/Isaac Lahey, Peter is allergic to feelings but he has them anyway, Peter's a bit pushy but he doesn't do anything Stiles doesn't agree to, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sassy Peter Hale, Sassy Stiles Stilinski, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26920474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JGogoboots/pseuds/dracoismytrashson
Summary: "I’m not that fucking naive. Believe me, I have no illusions about who you are. I just… everything is terrible, and I want to feel like I did that night… with you."Somehow, saying it out loud makes everything click into place. Maybe, in all the overwrought complication that is Peter and his past and the way it fits into Stiles’ life, this simple thing can still be true. Maybe sometimes it’s just nice to dive into distraction, and we can’t always choose who or what that distraction is. Maybe the distraction chooses us.Or: the one where Stiles sleeps with Peter instead of Malia, making both of their lives a bit more complicated.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 292
Kudos: 904





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Friday, friends. :) I've written about 22k of this fic because these two snarky idiots won't leave my brain alone. Copious thanks to a new fandom friend who cheered me on, reminding me to trust those little fandom plot bunnies that hop across my brain. Basically, you're in for a season four AU wherein Peter is still... Peter, but he makes a few different choices because of Stiles. I didn't tag this for underage because there are a few season four canon lines about members of the pack turning eighteen, and the timeline for TW is, as y'all know, about as nebulous as Doctor Who lol. That said, if age differences bother you, this isn't the fic for you so please close that tab and head on out.

Stiles looks over at Peter, whose features are arranged into that maddeningly calm, slightly bored expression that always makes Stiles want to punch him, and curses his sentimental attachment to the rusted, half-broken hunk of metal that got him into this situation.

Rather than pile into one rickety vehicle, they’d taken two cars to Mexico. Somehow, Stiles had ended up with Peter and only Peter in his not-so trusty Jeep while everyone else followed Braeden in Peter’s car. Approximately two minutes later, the temperamental thing had broken down in a cloud of exhaust, the stench of burning oil causing them both to cough.

They’d rolled it into a garage in a tiny town off the dusty road, and after the mechanics had traded dubious looks at the amount of duct tape and ridiculous jerry-rigging handiwork surrounding the engine, they’d told Stiles that it would be ready in the morning.

Frankly, that was no fucking help because here he was, pacing back and forth in a seedy motel room in the middle of nowhere with Peter fucking Hale while his friends might be getting maimed or killed in the desert.

“Will you  _ please _ stop that?” Peter implores in that measured, laconic cadence of his. Peter’s composure somehow makes Stiles even more anxious.

“What am I supposed to do?! I’m fucking worried, okay? We can’t all be cold, stony-eyed werewolves motivated by self-preservation. Some of us have friends, Peter. Friends who mean the world to us!”

“Friends who have obnoxiously thwarted death too many times to count and will no doubt accomplish that again tonight, with or without you. Sit. This is exceedingly irritating to watch.”

Stiles pauses for a moment, his eyes flitting over to Peter, and then resumes his relentless march across the stained carpet.

“What exactly do you think you’re accomplishing?” Peter asks with a beleaguered sigh.

“I’m giving this no doubt diseased carpet a thorough cleaning. You know, just beating the dust out with my feet,” Stiles says with a roll of his eyes.

“No amount of headache-inducing stomping is going to change the fact that we’re here and they’re not. I’m the one whose beautiful car is probably being driven into a ditch by a teenage idiot at this very moment. I have no idea what madness possessed me to give Lydia the keys, but I’m sure I’ll pay for it.”

“I—are you fucking serious? You’re worried about your precious car?! Could you possibly be any more shallow and self-involved?”

“Oh, I absolutely could. Would you like me to try?” Peter smirks, scooting up the bed a little more until his back is against the headboard. He folds his hands behind his head, and Stiles is sure there’s something very, very faulty in the wiring of his brain because he can’t help but notice how… flirtatious Peter looks. His broad chest is puffed out, the intensity of his blue-eyed stare setting little sparks off in areas of Stiles’ body that he’s not comfortable associating with Peter Hale. 

It’s something he’s been noticing more and more, a subtle shift in Peter’s gaze, his eyes landing on Stiles when no one else is paying attention. He figures Peter just does it to unnerve him. After all, unsettling people and smiling in wicked delight as they squirm is sort of Peter’s idea of fun. Stiles thinks Peter should get a goddamn hobby, preferably one that doesn’t involve inciting drama just to watch everyone spin their wheels.

“Just… leave me alone.” Stiles waves his hand ineffectually in Peter’s direction, trying to look at  _ anything _ but him. Trouble is, everything in the room is pretty unappealing. The ancient peeling wallpaper isn’t in much better shape than the carpet, and Stiles swears he saw something skittering into a hole in the wall a minute ago. Maybe the ceiling is a safe bet? Stiles frowns as he looks up to see a brown water stain that looks like it’s expanding. With a grunt, he resumes his loop around the room.

“Stiles, if you don’t sit down in the next ten seconds, I will relieve you of the use of your legs by snapping them both in half.” 

Stiles gulps because now Peter is wearing another one of his piercing stares, but this kind tends to signify imminent death for the recipient. 

Stiles weighs out his options, realizes he’s alone with a deadly supernatural creature, armed with nothing to protect himself except his own cunning, and reluctantly sits on the bed. He sticks to the foot of the bed, careful to keep as much space between them as possible. 

“You’re hunched over like a geriatric on his deathbed. Are you trying to give yourself scoliosis?”

“You can’t  _ give _ yourself scoliosis. It’s genetic. Or like, cerebral palsy can _ —aaahhhh, _ what are you doing?!” Stiles jerks to the side because a hand is on his shoulder, a hand that definitely shouldn’t be there. He spins around to find Peter startlingly close, those bright eyes like two menacing warnings that spell out all the ways Stiles is currently fucked. 

“Trying to get you to uncoil into something resembling a human shape. Will you just relax for a minute?”

“Have you met me? I once tore a hole in my jeans during a chemistry test. Started tapping my fingers on my knees, and the next thing I know, I’m pulling threads until I’m looking very Kurt Cobain circa 1993.”

“If I have to be in here with you all night, I’m going to need you to calm down. Don’t make me repeat the whole leg-breaking threat because honestly, a second time would be overkill. Too hackneyed mobster for my taste. Turn back around.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Peter raises a stern eyebrow and so Stiles decides to save his precious legs and do as he’s told. A moment later, Peter’s thumbs are digging into the muscles just below Stiles’ neck, his nimble fingers working their way down until they reach the middle of his back, rising up again to focus on his shoulders.

“Ooooohhhh, that’s… okay, I do feel better. Would it um… be weird to ask if I can lie on my stomach for this? I—” Before Stiles can say anything else, Peter roughly tosses him onto his stomach. Stiles makes a soft  _ “oof” _ as he goes down, but he’s too tired to utter a snarky objection. The thing about Stiles’ manic spirals of anxiety is that they tend to take everything out of him. There’s always an inevitable crash, like his mind and body can’t sustain that level of worry for too long before leveling out. He figures it probably doesn’t hurt that he’s also a little warm and loose from the work of Peter’s hands.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Excuse me? When exactly did we graduate to that level of comfort? Seems like we’re skipping a whole lot of stages in our non-relationship.”

“So you’ll let me touch you while you’re in this very vulnerable position, your back turned on a werewolf, but shirtless is where you draw the line? How ever do you determine your limits, Stiles?”

“Ugh, fine.” Backrubs  _ are _ easier without a shirt. It’s just a fact, and well… Stiles is fucking tense and this is the only thing that’s made him stop catastrophizing for a single second. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s been in far more terrifying situations than getting a backrub from Peter.

Stiles lifts up enough to shrug out of his plaid button-down and his t-shirt. When he lies back down, he squeezes his eyes shut as though not being able to see somehow means he can pretend he didn’t agree to this.

But when Peter straddles Stiles’ ass and starts massaging his lower back, the reality is impossible to shut out.

Another thing that’s impossible to shut out is the way his cock is twitching from the pressure of Peter’s body and the firm, dexterous strokes of his fingers.

Stiles lets out a soft moan, and there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him to stop, but he can’t be bothered with it. Not when he’s putty under Peter’s hands, his body sinking into the bed, every muscle going slack. 

“That’s it,” Peter purrs. “Good boy.”

Stiles lets out another moan, this one louder and far more embarrassing, and he frowns, scolding his dick for responding to Peter’s voice and growing thicker in his jeans. Peter chuckles like he just  _ knows, _ like he can see behind the dirty curtain of Stiles’ mind. 

He probably can. Chemosignals are the bane of Stiles’ existence. 

Stiles feels the unmistakable press of wet lips between his shoulder blades, and his heart catches in his throat. 

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare do that. Not with a very powerful man on top of him. A man who could crush his spine with little effort.

“Now that you’re more…  _ pliable, _ why don’t we pass the time the way we both know you want to?” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear, and the husky sound of it is making the heat build, build, build in his groin. Peter’s back is pressed against Stiles’ chest now, and it feels so much better than it has any right to. “Look at you, just desperately fucking the mattress. You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?”

How didn’t he notice? Stiles stills his hips, but it’s too little, too late. Peter already knows, and Stiles feels a fierce blush flooding his cheeks.

“Are you serious? On what planet would I agree to fuck an emotionless, sociopathic killer?” As the words tumble out of his mouth, Stiles feels a little relief knowing that at least some part of his brain isn’t being controlled by his traitorous dick.

“On the planet where I look like this and you’re a horny teenager who’s a slave to his base urges.”

Stiles doesn’t have anything to say to that, and he’s chagrined to realize what a compelling argument it is. There have been times when Stiles probably would have fucked a particularly soft, inviting blanket, if he’s being honest. Maybe it doesn’t really have to do with Peter at all. Maybe this is just par for the course, a natural reaction to having someone’s body pressed against his in a way he’s never experienced before.

“Yeah, well, think again. My teenage dick has  _ some _ discretion.”

“No, it doesn’t. Why don’t you do us both a favor and stop pretending? It’s an insult to my intelligence  _ and _ yours. Even if I couldn’t feel this,” Peter reaches around and palms Stiles’ clothed erection, a desperate whine escaping Stiles’ lips, “I could still smell it on you. It’s overpowering, Stiles. Intoxicating, really.”

“There’s a difference between being attracted to someone and objectively knowing they’re exceptionally good-looking. You’re like an Instagram model with perfect hair who spends all their disposable income on NRA donations and coats made from skinned puppies: the pretty doesn’t offset the immense  _ evil, _ okay?”

“You think I’m pretty,” Peter replies, and Stiles can feel the self-satisfied curve of Peter’s lips against his neck.

“Big fucking deal. Snow is pretty. Diamonds are pretty. Harry Styles is pretty. You’re not unique. Now get off me.”

“Fine, we’ll spend this night in the most supremely boring, uneventful manner.” Peter rolls off Stiles, returning to his previous position at the top of the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. “Pity. Thought you were more interesting than that. The bland moral grandstanding is best left to Scott.”

“Hey, I am anything but bland,” Stiles says with an indignant frown as he sits back on his heels, arms crossed. “I am spicy as fuck. I am like a level ten vindaloo, the kind your white ass has to spend twenty minutes convincing the food truck owner you can handle. No, I’m not speaking from experience, why do you ask?” Stiles shakes his fist. “One day I will have that true level ten.”

“Whatever you say.” Peter closes his eyes, and now Stiles is riled because he doesn’t back down from a challenge. He won’t have Peter thinking he’s boring. And besides… he’s insatiably curious about what will happen when he says yes. His phone is on. Scott and the others will text him if there’s news about Derek. His options are to see what happens with Peter or return to dwelling on every worst case scenario that could befall his friends.

“Okay, fine. Sex me. Sex me right now. Rock my world, you big werewolf stud. Show me what I’m missing,” Stiles quips.

“Every word that spills from your mouth is more odious than the last.” 

“Well, fill my fucking mouth so I  _ can’t _ say anything.” Stiles doesn’t know where the hell that boldness came from. His bravery is sort of like the functionality of his finicky Jeep: unpredictable and intermittent. He can’t control when it comes and goes.

Peter gets a hunger in his eyes that starts to scare Stiles, but he barely has time to process what’s happening before Peter is on him, claiming his mouth and pushing him onto his back. His tongue is hot and insistent in Stiles’ mouth. It’s unlike any kiss he’s ever experienced. There’s no tentative teenage fumbling in it; Peter knows exactly what he wants, and he’s just  _ taking _ it. Stiles isn’t sure he can keep up, but he tries. He nips at Peter’s bottom lip and explores every corner of his mouth, and he  _ tries. _ When Peter starts kissing and biting his neck, Stiles can’t help but stretch to give Peter better access, one hand stroking Peter’s hair, the other hanging onto his shoulder for dear life.

“That feels really fucking good,” Stiles gasps as Peter sucks a bruise onto his neck. 

“Of course it does.” Peter starts traveling down, marking his territory on Stiles’ chest, sucking on his nipples and licking a long line down the middle of his stomach. “Every touch from me will be the best thing you’ve ever felt in your entire small, meaningless life.”

“God, do you ever stop being an arrogant piece of shit, like even for a minute?”

“No.” Peter doesn’t look up as he unzips Stiles’ jeans, pulling them down around his thighs. He noses against the fabric of Stiles’ boxers, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s just going to faint dead away any second now, giving Peter a good, long laugh and mortification material to blackmail him forever. When Peter pulls Stiles’ boxers down, his cock springing free, Stiles leans up on his elbows to get a better look at what’s inexplicably happening.

“Uh, so what are we going to—” Before he can finish the question, Peter’s mouth is on his cock, and everything is warm and wet and overwhelming, a surge of arousal making everything fuzzy at the edges of his vision, his thighs tensing, his hands clawing at the bedspread until he feels like he might tear it to shreds.

“Good little Stiles, so incorruptible,” Peter murmurs as he pulls off. Stiles draws in a ragged breath and tries to steady himself. Coming in ten seconds flat is another embarrassment he doesn’t want to add to the list. “So devoted to the cause. What would they say if they could see you right now?”

“Shut up,” Stiles weakly protests, but he’s ashamed to notice that Peter’s words turn him on a bit. There’s something irresistible about letting Peter do this and knowing everyone would judge him for it. It’s dirty and wrong, and goddamn if that doesn’t make it ten times hotter.

Peter smiles, and it’s all teeth. Equal parts predatory and sexy. Stiles supposes that sums up Peter pretty well.

“You love that, don’t you? You feel bad for wanting this, but that just makes it all the sweeter, doesn’t it? I can hear your heart.” Peter pumps his fist up and down Stiles’ cock, and, keeping his eyes pinned on Stiles, he licks across the leaking head. 

Stiles moans and knows he’ll be jerking off to that image for weeks. 

Peter swallows him all the way down, and Stiles finally lets go of the bedspread to thread his hands in Peter’s hair, his legs squirming on either side of Peter’s shoulders. Right now, Stiles couldn’t keep still if his life depended on it. He expects resistance, like Peter won’t even let him have that much control, but instead, Peter gently lifts one of Stiles’ thighs and folds it over his shoulder before doing the same to the other. Stiles lets out a happy sigh because it feels right like this, comfortable and protected, braced by Peter’s strong shoulders as he bobs up and down on Stiles’ cock, his mouth an unbearably tight, slick seal. 

“Peter, I—I’m—” Stiles starts to spill down Peter’s throat, and the sensation of his cock jumping inside someone’s mouth like that, his hands tightening in Peter’s hair, Peter’s own broad palms squeezing his thighs… it hits him so hard, he feels like he’s losing control of his entire body, just shaking and spasming until he isn’t sure it will ever end. When Peter comes to lie beside him, Stiles is vaguely aware that he’s still whimpering and sighing, little aftershocks rocking through his body, but he can’t stifle it.

“You make the loveliest, utterly wrecked picture when you come, Stiles.” Peter nips gently at his earlobe, slinging an arm across his chest, and Stiles reaches out a numb hand, running it along Peter’s sinewy forearm.

“Oh…” is the only word Stiles can muster, and it makes Peter chuckle. 

“Feeling more relaxed now?”

“Yeah… definitely.” Stiles hazards a glance in Peter’s direction, and Peter is still wearing that ravenous look, like he wants to unhinge his jaw and swallow Stiles whole. Now that Stiles is coming down, it’s back to being a bit unnerving, but that doesn’t abate his interest. At least not enough. “Um… do you want me to…” Stiles takes a deep breath and runs his fingers along the denim bulge in Peter’s pants. Feeling how hard Peter is from sucking him off makes Stiles gasp a little. It’s not like he didn’t think Peter was enjoying himself. After all, Peter rarely does anything except the exact thing he wants to. Still, knowing that he did this to Peter is fucking amazing.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“What if I wanna worry about it?”

“No offense, Stiles, but I’ll skip the clumsy handjob from the teenage novice.” Peter rolls his eyes and slides onto his back, which gives Stiles an even better view of the sizable tent in his jeans, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a ribbon of skin Stiles wants to bathe with his tongue.

“First off, rude! Second, why don’t you just tell me what you like? I’m  _ great _ at following instructions. Third, you are so fucking sexy, and I need to see your body like, yesterday, so just jerk off in front of me, if you want. I don’t care, but please let me see you come?” Stiles doesn’t really see the point in pretending anymore. It’s kind of pointless when he considers that only minutes ago, Peter had his mouth around Stiles’ dick, and Stiles was moaning and tugging at his hair like he’d never felt anything better.

Peter flashes a smile that should come with a parental advisory warning for explicit content and rakes his eyes up and down Stiles’ body.

“Just how badly do you want it?”

“You evil bastard…”

“Tell me.”

“I want,” Stiles leans in and kisses his lips, “you,” and then his neck, “to show me,” and then licks along the edge of his ear, “that undoubtedly impressive dick that’s about to bust the seams on your jeans because somehow I just  _ know _ it’s impressive. Which, by the way, is totally unfair because your ego does  _ not _ need a boost. In fact, you’d have to be taken down about ten notches to downgrade from narcissist to normal person. But the universe is a cruel son of a bitch so I just know it gave you a great dick.”

“Are you trying to annoy me out of my clothes?” Peter asks, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. He just sounds pleasantly amused as he pushes Stiles’ hair back from his forehead.

“That depends, is it working?”

By way of an answer, Peter gets off the bed and stands up, never taking his eyes off Stiles as he strips, shedding his t-shirt (which is always a little too tight, and Stiles  _ swears _ the smug asshole does it on purpose) and then his jeans. He takes his time with his underwear, dipping his thumbs underneath the waistband and smirking for an eternal moment, making sure Stiles is still watching. 

“Wow… you’re so… I mean,  _ wow.”  _ Stiles feels like a played out cliché when he bites his lip, but Jesus fucking Christ, every inch of Peter is toned and gorgeous and he sort of feels like just sitting here and staring for a good long hour would be enough to satisfy him. 

“Your eloquence is unmatched.”

“Shut up, you crotchety old man. I’m trying to pay you a compliment here.”

“A little constructive criticism? Calling me old isn’t particularly flattering. You might want to revise your definition of what constitutes a compliment.”

“Your body is insane, and I want to lick every inch of it. And even though I know this is the kind of thought I should see a therapist about, I think it’s extremely hot that you could probably snap my neck with those burly thighs. Is that better? Oh god, I really shouldn’t have said that last part considering you could actually do that. Please don’t do that?”

“No promises, but I will at least save the neck-snapping for  _ after _ I’ve had an orgasm.” Peter climbs onto the bed and lies on his side, pulling at Stiles’ back until he’s on his side too, facing Peter.

“That’s um… yeah, that’s fair.”

Without so much as a word, Peter grabs Stiles’ hand and curls it around his cock, keeping his fingers wrapped around Stiles’ hand. He starts to guide both of their hands up and down, controlling Stiles’ movements, and there’s something strangely intimate about it. Not only is Peter letting him do this, he’s helping him, showing him how much pressure to apply and where to linger, when to speed up and when to slow down. 

“God, you feel so good. Why are you doing this with me?” It’s the sort of question best left for after sex, not during, but Stiles has always been a champion overthinker. His mind was stunned into silence while Peter was sucking him off, but the thoughts are starting to trickle back in one by one, like angry, demanding bees buzzing around his head.

“Why not?” Peter shrugs as he offers this non-answer, kissing away any further questions threatening to spill from Stiles’ lips. Peter lets out a guttural groan, and Stiles’ hand speeds up, trying to get Peter to make that sound again. Peter’s hand falls away, and he just leaves Stiles to it, his mouth still pressing bruising kisses into Stiles’ eager lips.

It isn’t long before Peter is spilling onto his hand, warm, sticky spurts that Stiles can’t help but watch in awe, struck by the fact that  _ he did that.  _

Peter is much quieter and more composed than Stiles was when he came, but there’s still enough ragged breath to stir the heat in Stiles’ groin, making his soft cock twitch. He doesn’t get hard again, but he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t take much longer. 

“I’m gonna…” Stiles awkwardly raises his soiled hand, and Peter nods with a small laugh. Stiles walks over to the bathroom and washes his hands, sparing a glance at his reflection, smiling at how flushed and disheveled he is, evidence that this whole thing really did happen. He didn’t imagine it.

“My turn,” Peter says, walking into the bathroom as Stiles leaves it. He’s only in there for a minute or two, but it feels like an hour as Stiles sits in the empty room, contemplating how very much he’s going to hell for having sex with a monster like Peter Hale.

“I can practically hear you thinking. Stop,” Peter admonishes as he strolls back into the room, draping his unfairly beautiful body across the bed. 

“Couldn’t if I tried, man. It’s a curse.”

“Not even when you were coming in my mouth?”

“Oh, I definitely stopped thinking then. Thank you for that,” Stiles says with a nervous smile.

“Anytime.”

“Really?”

“No. Tonight is a special circumstance that we will not be repeating.”

“Oh… okay.” Stiles is surprised to feel the sting of disappointment. He reaches over and grabs his phone from the nightstand, turning the volume up to make sure he’ll hear it if he drifts off (not like he really needs to, he’s the lightest, most alert sleeper). He shifts onto his side and starts to curl into Peter’s body, but Peter jerks away.

“Just what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to snuggle with you, obviously. Look, I find it really hard to sleep away from home, and right now? With all the stress? It’s a million times worse. Cuddling would help.”

“And why should I care about your needs?” Peter closes his eyes and sighs like this conversation is causing him physical pain.

“Okay, ouch. I mean, I know this sort of callous ‘I’m too cool for emotions, let me break out the whiskey and the Raymond Chandler’ act is your thing, but really? Dispense with the bullshit. Obviously you care about my needs a  _ little _ because you just touched me like you did, and no amount of masculine posturing is going to erase that from my memory. That might work on someone with weaker powers of discernment, but I’m not an idiot no matter how many people treat me like it, okay?” It’s a gamble to say this to someone as stubborn as Peter, but when it comes to running his mouth, Stiles has never been one to back down from a perilous risk.

“I know you’re not an idiot.” There’s a surprising fondness in Peter’s voice, a note of sincerity that isn’t something Stiles has ever heard from him. Stiles can’t be sure his ears aren’t deceiving him. 

“Well… that was dangerously close to a compliment, Peter. Careful, someone might overhear you. Ruin your rep. Run you out of town for being a sentimental softie. Now snuggle me, you big scary teddy wolf.” Stiles goes back to burrowing into Peter’s side, forcing his head into the crook of Peter’s arm, but Peter is still stiff and unyielding. “Oh my goooddd, what are you afraid of?! Five minutes with your arm around my waist, and you’ll be trapped in a Nicholas Sparks book? Come on, this is ridiculous…” Stiles props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Peter’s exasperated face. “Okay, how about this? You cuddle me now, I’ll suck your cock later. Compromise: it makes the world go round.”

“Will you let me pull out and come all over your pretty pink lips?” Those words stop Stiles’ heart, the blood pumping thickly between his legs, but Peter utters them so casually, like they aren’t two people who, until about an hour ago, had never touched before. Peter traces his fingers over Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles almost closes his lips around them because suddenly, he really, really wants to suck on those fingers.

“Jesus… you are so fucking unapologetically filthy.” Stiles sort of hates how much he loves that.

“Being a depraved psycho does have its pros,” Peter jokes.

“Yes, you can absolutely do that. In fact, I’m going to insist on it, and I want you to tell me what a good boy I am while you make a mess out of me because apparently, that shit makes me really horny.” Maybe it’s not the sort of thing he should admit, but in for a penny, in for a voraciously horny pound.

“Stiles…” Peter beams at him with a mixture of pride and lust. “You are always a delicious, delicious surprise. Come here.”

He opens his arms, and Stiles settles in, smiling with a contented hum as he nuzzles his cheek against Peter’s chest. Peter reaches over and turns out the lamp on the nightstand.

“You know what I like about werewolves?” Stiles says, and he feels the rise and fall of Peter’s chest beneath his cheek. 

“Why ask a rhetorical question when you know you’re about to relentlessly yammer on no matter what I say?” 

“You’re so sweet. Always such an attentive listener. I feel truly  _ heard _ you know? Really valued—”

“Stiles.”

“Right, sorry. It’s the warmth! You’re so warm.” Stiles smiles as he feels Peter’s heat radiating through him. Peter makes a surprisingly comfortable substitute for his trusty pillow. “Peter?”

“Dear god, Stiles, what does it take to get you to sleep?”

“Heavy horse tranquilizers mixed with a little Xanax. Puts me right out. Aannyyway… I just… why did you have sex with me?” Asking twice is pushing it, but since Peter was adamant there won’t be any follow-up sex after they leave this room, he figures he doesn’t really have anything to lose.

“Because I like you, Stiles. I always have.” Peter’s breathing descends into the slow rhythm of slumber, and with those words still in his ears, Stiles finally feels ready to fall asleep too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you're into the idea of this fic. <3 I've been having a lot of fun writing it, and I impulsively published this first chapter tonight because I've had a shit week and could use some squeeing with fellow Steter shippers! But I also don't know if anyone is really into this idea haha. So yeah... let me know if you want more, and I'll try to publish weekly. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii. I fully intended to stick to my Friday posting schedule, but... since you were all SO LOVELY in the comments and I'm having one of those days where adult life is giving me several swift kicks in the ass, here is chapter two. After all, in my queer ass opinion, there's no better escape from reality than smutty fanfic. :D

Peter is true to his word.

He doesn’t touch Stiles again. 

In fact, he barely acknowledges him at all, which wouldn’t usually be a problem considering that Peter isn’t normally around that often. But because of the fiasco with Kate kidnapping Derek and the Hale vault heist, that smirking asshole has become a regular fixture in Stiles’ life. More and more, Scott is relying on a shaky alliance with Peter to help combat the current set of adversaries in the fraught reality that is life in Beacon Hills. 

Stiles feels like the nerd banging the hot jock behind closed doors. Peter is indifferent to his presence, and the night they shared now seems like some fever dream confined to Stiles’ head. It’s a shittier feeling than he anticipated it would be, made all the shittier by the fact that he doesn’t even feel justified in his disappointment. 

Peter is Peter. 

It’s totally irrational for Stiles to expect anything beyond the one-night hookup, and that’s not even mentioning how upsetting it is that he  _ wants _ more?! It’s probably for the best that Peter is ignoring him because Stiles would do well to shun the impulse to have sex with him again. There’s no way that would be a remotely healthy decision. It would probably end in blood and fire and lost limbs.

“You okay, dude?” Scott asks, and it’s then that Stiles realizes he’s been zoning out, unresponsive and lost in his head as his best friend talks.

“What?” Stiles takes a right at the stop sign and heads down Scott’s street. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s just… all this Benefactor stuff… the dead pool… it’s a lot.”

It’s not really a lie. Stiles  _ is _ doing mental gymnastics over that; he just has a whole separate sector of his preoccupied mind that he can’t share with Scott.

“I know, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.” Scott smiles, and it’s the tranquil balm it always is. It’s one of the reasons they have such a great dynamic: when one of them is spiraling, the other is always there to catch him.

After he drops Scott off, he sits in his Jeep for a solid five minutes, jittery fingers tapping the steering wheel, listening to the slightly janky hum of the engine as he decides whether to head home or make the dubious choice he’s been fighting for weeks.

“Fuck it,” he mutters as drives off toward downtown. Beacon Hills is a literal death trap at every corner. Might as well do whatever the fuck you want with the (possibly) limited time you have, right? 

  
  


***

  
  


When Stiles gets to Peter’s apartment, he’s struck by the same inertia he keeps experiencing anytime he thinks about Peter. It’s like he can  _ almost _ make a decision but freezes at the final moment, not quite taking the step across the threshold. So here he is, standing outside Peter’s door like a fucking idiot, raising his hand to knock and then letting it drop again, turning on his heel to walk away a few paces only to turn right back and resume staring at the door like it’ll magically open if he waits long enough. He’s lucky no one else who lives on this floor has wandered into the hall and asked what the hell he’s doing.

Just as he’s about to do another round of walking away only to boomerang back, the door swings open to reveal Peter. Did he  _ actually _ will that to happen?!

Peter steps forward and crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. He looks rather impassive, but Stiles suspects he’s verging on annoyed. He usually is.

“How did you know I was here? Heartbeat?” Stiles asks.

“Heartbeat, breathing, footsteps. Stealth isn’t your strong suit. How long have you been standing out here?”

“Uh…” For obvious reasons, Stiles doesn’t really want to answer that. 

“Come in.” Peter shakes his head with a sigh, but he steps aside all the same.

It’s strange to see Peter’s living quarters. Parts of it are a lot like Stiles expected: curated, clean, open space much like Derek’s loft. Peter is all about control so Stiles figured he wouldn’t like a lot of chaos in his apartment, nothing out of place, no excess trinkets and sentimental items. But there is another side to the place too, a more whimsical leaning that Stiles didn’t predict. Peter seems to have a fondness for mid-century vintage furniture. There’s an egg chair and a big red velvet sofa on spindly wooden legs that point outward. Hanging on the wall is one of those clocks with big colorful baubles on the end of the spokes instead of numbers. The rug in the living room is patterned in bold yellow, orange, and red swirls that remind Stiles of dresses women wore in the 60s. It’s… fun? And funky?! Which are two words he would never have associated with Peter Hale.

“How did you even get my address?” Peter asks as he walks over to the kitchen area and leans against the island. The appliances are very slick, modern stainless steel, but the swivel chairs at the island match the vibe of the living room. 

“Derek,” Stiles lies, and Peter sees right through it.

“Derek doesn’t have a death wish. Well… actually, that’s not true. His martyr complex is a mile wide, but he doesn’t want to die by  _ my _ hand so no, you didn’t get it from Derek.”

“The internet. Everything’s a matter of public record these days, Peter. You can find anything if you know where to look.”

“Of course. Why are you stalking me?”

Stiles opens his mouth to challenge that notion, but the color drains from his face as he realizes with a kind of paralyzing horror that Peter is right. 

“Oh god, I never thought I would be the creep out of the two of us, but you’re right. I looked up your address and went to your apart—gaaahhh,” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and thrusts his hands into his hair, “I am absolutely a stalker. I’m the fucking worst, and I’m leaving right now.”

Stiles starts to walk toward the door, but Peter catches up with him (werewolf speed is a bitch) and stops him, one firm hand on Stiles’ chest.

“Why are you here?” Peter asks the question in the kind of slow, intimidating way Stiles’ father uses in interrogations.  _ Tell me what I want to know and I’ll go easy on you.  _ It makes Stiles sweat. 

“No reason. Just… in the neighborhood. Checking to make sure things are up to code, you know, in case uh… we need to—so what are  _ you _ doing?” Stiles asks in an unwieldy attempt to turn the conversation back to Peter. He’s trying not to crumble under pressure, but Peter’s unblinking gaze makes his legs feel like jelly. “Just an average day brooding in your lair? It’s  _ nice, _ really nice. How did you get that Hale fortune, anyway? Didn’t think there was a lot of cash in the unemployed werewolf game.”

“Stiles. Why… are… you… here?” Peter stretches out the question as though Stiles is too thick to understand it, and although Stiles wants to snap back with a pithy retort, he doesn’t say anything at all. His tongue feels like cement in his mouth. Peter hangs his head like he’s lamenting this result, like he knew exactly what would happen when Stiles walked through that door. When he looks back up, his eyes are steely. “A little tip, Stiles. If you can’t even say it, you’re probably not ready for it. Go home.”

Peter pats Stiles on the shoulder and walks away, leaving him dumbfounded and staring at the door. Stiles takes a deep breath, clenching his fists until his fingernails dig into his palms, and finally says what he came here to say. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Stiles hears Peter’s footsteps come to a stop on the hardwood, but he doesn’t turn around. “Please? You know, if you’re… if you want to.” Stiles shyly looks over his shoulder, and Peter is standing a few feet away, his back to Stiles. He doesn’t move. “Okay yeah, I didn’t think so. I’ll just—” 

Suddenly, Peter is across the room and pushing Stiles against the door. 

“Let me be clear. This isn’t a romance. So if you’re asking for this, you need to understand exactly what it is you’re asking for.” 

“Wait, you mean we’re not getting married and moving to Paris? Because that dress I bought is nonrefundable, and I happen to think my complexion looks really good in Europe in the spring. You know, the lavender and the cherry blossoms? Had my heart set on that,” Stiles says, but Peter doesn’t even crack a smile. He just narrows his eyes, his hands pushing on Stiles’ shoulders a little harder. “I know that, Peter. Come on… I’m not that fucking naive. Believe me, I have no illusions about who you are. I just… everything is terrible, and I want to feel like I did that night… with you.”

Somehow, saying it out loud makes everything click into place. Maybe, in all the overwrought complication that is Peter and his past and the way it fits into Stiles’ life, this simple thing can still be true. Maybe sometimes it’s just nice to dive into distraction, and we can’t always choose who or what that distraction is. Maybe the distraction chooses us.

“I seem to recall you were very concerned with your safety when Jennifer Blake was picking off virgins one by one.” Peter keeps pinning Stiles to the door with one hand, but he moves the other to his cheek. Stiles can’t decide which he likes better, Peter’s thumb stroking his cheekbone or his fingers bruising his shoulder. One thing is for sure: if this is the debate currently waging in his head, something is very, very wrong with him.

“Is that your way of asking if I’m still a virgin?” Stiles says, trying and failing not to sound breathless.

“Yes.”

“Well… I mean, defining that sort of thing by penetrative sex is really outdated and heteronormative so—”

“Save it for your queer theory class, Foucault. Answer the question.”

“Yes… I haven’t… to anyone. And no one has to me.” Stiles tries to make the words come out steady, but it’s not like it matters. Not when Peter can hear the erratic thump of his heart.

Peter gives him a long, hard look, and Stiles wishes he could see whatever gears are turning in the mind hidden behind that very handsome face.

“As much as I would take great pleasure in changing that, I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” Peter eventually says. 

“Risk of what?”

“You turning into a sullen, lovesick teenager afterward, feeling betrayed even though I told you exactly what you were getting into. You’re young. You don’t know how to separate sex and feelings.”

“Then why did you suck me off and cuddle me after?” Stiles challenges.

Peter makes a chagrined huff and lets go of Stiles.

“Because I don’t have the best track record for making responsible decisions. I’m trying not to do that again.”

Stiles nods, prepared to slink away in defeat, but then Peter speaks up again.

“I’m trying, but… I still love to do the wrong thing. So very much.” Peter pushes Stiles against the door, but this time he uses his whole body, pressing up against Stiles until he whimpers, needy hands clutching at Peter’s back. “I have one more condition. You tell no one about this, and I mean no one.”

“You want me to be your dirty little secret? I don’t want to sleep with someone who’s ashamed of me.”

“It’s not about shame. How do you think your ragtag pack of friends, the little misfits-who-could, would take this?” 

“Look, I’m sure Scott would have a meltdown, but he’d get over it—” 

“And how do you think your father, the sheriff who owns many guns, would take it? I’m thinking his trigger finger would get pretty itchy if he found out I was fucking his barely legal son.” 

“You make a convincing argument.” Stiles knows that telling his dad he’s old enough to have sex with whoever he wants wouldn’t erase any of the concerns the sheriff would undoubtedly have, and well… considering all the murder and mass injury Peter has left in his wake, Stiles can’t really blame him. Best to just bypass that conflict altogether. “Okay fine, secret lovers.”

Stiles grins broadly, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“No, Stiles, if you want me to have sex with you now or ever again—” 

“Secret looovvveerrss,” Stiles sings, swaying back and forth. “Come on, sing it with me, Peter. I know you know the words. There’s definitely a cheesy ballad guy hiding underneath that—”

Peter kisses him hard, his tongue dancing along the seam of Stiles’ lips, his hips rolling just enough to make Stiles feel like he’ll die if he doesn’t get Peter naked soon. Like he’ll just crumble into a pile of lustful dust on the floor. He can see the epitaph now. 

_ Cause of death: spontaneous hormonal combustion. He died as he lived: utterly confused about everything he wanted, but blindly diving in anyway. _

Peter’s lips make their way to Stiles’ neck, and Stiles runs greedy hands over everything he can reach: Peter’s back, his chest, his ass.

“I really love your body. Have I told you that? Because I do, like… I really, really do.”

“As you’ve noted, I don’t need the confidence boost, but it’s still nice of you to say it.” Peter gives him a cheeky grin, and Stiles can’t decide if he wants to slap or kiss him. Probably both.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“And you like me, so what does that say about you?” Peter drags his hand down the front of Stiles’ t-shirt, fingers teasing at the waistband of his jeans but not going any further.

“And apparently you have a thing for snarky twinks who tend to nervous ramble so…”

Peter laughs softly and steps away, turning around and walking across the hardwood floor.

“Um, should I… follow?”

Peter casts an exasperated glance over his shoulder, and Stiles nods vigorously before catching up to him.

Peter’s bedroom is less offbeat than the living room, but it’s still color-coordinated, everything clearly chosen with meticulous care. Everything is in shades of blue, mostly dark with a dab of lightness here and there.

“If you keep staring at everything except me, I might start to feel a little neglected.” Hooking two fingers in Stiles’ belt loops, Peter pulls him closer, their torsos colliding. 

“Sorry. I’m just… curious, I guess.”

“I know. Curious is your default. It’s both your strength and your weakness.” Peter pushes him onto the bed. While Stiles is shifting around, trying to figure out what the hell to do with his hands, his arms, his whole damn body because apparently he’s lost basic motor function, Peter is casually stripping until he’s wearing nothing at all. He crawls onto the bed and plays with the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”

Even though Peter has seen him naked before, even though Stiles  _ came _ here for this exact purpose, it feels like one of those dreams where he wanders into school naked, his rabbit heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage as he looks for a place to hide. 

Determined not to let Peter see that, Stiles takes his shirt off and finishes with the rest as Peter moves away to give him room. In an instant, Peter is on top of him, and Stiles can’t think about anything else, not when Peter’s entire naked body is sliding against his, Peter’s cock rubbing against his own erection, his broad chest a comforting weight, his lips back on Stiles’ mouth like they belong there.

“Have you been thinking about this every day?” Peter whispers as he licks at Stiles’ ear, and although Stiles can tell he’s smug about it, it’s not like Peter is  _ wrong. _

“I like your voice. I kept thinking about how… if you’d talk to me when…” Stiles’ cheeks go scarlet as he thinks about the endless fantasies that have played through his mind since that night in the motel. 

“If I’d tell you what a good boy you are while I fuck you? If I’d tell you how well you’re taking my cock? What a pretty, desperate little slut you are for it?” Peter is grinding against him, and everything is somehow too good but not good enough. Stiles can’t decide if coming here was the best or worst idea he’s ever had. Peter grips Stiles’ ass and bites down on his shoulder, and while the jury is still out, Stiles is leaning toward  _ best. _ “You like it when I hurt you a little.”

“Yeah… It feels… It just makes me…”

“Tell me.” Peter pulls back to look at Stiles, his arms bracketing his shoulders. Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to summon enough coherence to form actual sentences.

“I don’t know… It’s like… grounding? Like it centers me? Makes me stop thinking and just keeps me in the moment. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not at all. Why are you making that face?” Peter asks with a tilt of his head.

“I just didn’t expect you to notice or care about what I like. I figured you’d just take what you want. Seems more your style.”

“Oh, I’ll absolutely be taking what I want, but let me assure you that you won’t be leaving here unsatisfied.” Peter returns his attention to Stiles’ neck, but he abruptly rises up again, spearing Stiles with a glare. “I’m sorry, what did you think I’d be like? One of those pathetic boys on your lacrosse team fucking into their unfortunate girlfriends with all the finesse of a jackhammer?”

“No, no.” Stiles laughs at the absurdity of that. “You’re just kind of a selfish guy, and like… you don’t make that a secret? So I assumed you would be in bed too.”

“Was I selfish when I sucked your cock?” Peter’s glare intensifies, and Stiles squirms a little underneath it.

“Good point. I guess it’s just that whole ‘this isn’t a romance’ bit, blah blah. I figured this would be a little rushed.”

“Paying attention to what someone likes is just part of what makes it good. Don’t confuse good sex with romance, Stiles. It’s a grave mistake nearly everyone makes. Better to learn the difference now.”

Stiles almost asks for clarification. He’s too inexperienced to really know the difference, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to figure it out. It’s not like he has anything to compare this to. But then Peter is reaching into the nightstand, grabbing a tube of lube that he uncaps, drizzling the liquid onto two fingers, and it doesn’t seem like the right time to ask much of anything.

Peter arranges Stiles’ body the way he wants it, sliding a pillow under his hips, spreading his legs and bending them back. It’s an awkward position to be in with anyone, let alone someone he doesn’t really know that well, all things considered. Stiles wonders how people just  _ do _ this all the time, surrendering their body to someone they just met, laid out like the most vulnerable and tender of offerings. Does it get easier with practice?

Peter circles Stiles’ hole with the pads of his fingers. It isn’t like Stiles didn’t know this was the next step, but the lube is cold and no one has ever touched him there before. He clams up, and Peter notices immediately.

“Stiles.” Peter’s eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not exactly a scolding look, but it’s something adjacent.

“Peter, I swear to god, if you’re about to tell me to relax…”

“Relax,” Peter says with a smirk. “You need to or this is going to hurt.”

“This is probably not the most thought out plan I’ve ever had,” Stiles admits with a long, tremulous exhale.

“I would agree.”

“Oh wow, thanks for the reassurance. Especially while, you know, you’re about to be the first person to put your fingers in my ass.” Stiles waves his hands around and then flings one arm over his eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. He feels the weight shifting on the bed, and then Peter’s moist breath is on his neck, his fingers still circling, circling but not pushing in.

“Do you know what it’s going to feel like when you let go? When I push inside you and find that spot that makes you see stars? When you learn what it feels like to come with my cock inside you?”

“Mmmm.” Stiles strokes up and down Peter’s back, mapping every muscle with his fingertips. He unclenches his ass, a little bit of the tension leaving his legs and hips. “Keep talking to me.”

“When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to remember why you were scared of this. All you’ll be able to do is beg me to fuck you again and again.” Peter finally pushes his fingers inside a little bit, and Stiles is surprised to find that he isn’t uncomfortable. He just wants more. “But I won’t. I’ll make you wait until you can’t stand it anymore. Until you can’t think about anything but me. Until you’re at my door again, so shamelessly needy for it that you’ll do anything I want.”

“Peter,” Stiles moans, the sound swallowed by Peter’s mouth on his, and suddenly, he realizes he’s thrusting back onto Peter’s fingers. When did that happen? When did Peter push them all the way in, and how— 

“There we go. That’s it,” Peter whispers, peppering Stiles’ chest with kisses and bites. Stiles bites down on his own hand, his teeth sinking into the fleshy space behind his thumb, trying to mute the wanton sounds leaking out of his mouth. Peter has absolutely found that spot, and Stiles feels warm and fluid, everything feverish and so good, it almost fucking hurts. Peter pries Stiles’ hand away from his mouth and keeps relentlessly rubbing across that spot inside him. “Oh no, you’re not allowed to hide. Let me hear you or I stop. Be a good boy for me, Stiles.”

When Peter strokes his prostate again, Stiles lets out a strangled cry, a noise he barely recognizes as his own voice. He’s dying to shove his hand back in his mouth, but he doesn’t.

Okay, this is definitely the best idea he’s ever had. Best idea in the history of ideas, in fact.

“Look at me,” Peter says, the low, raspy command of it sending a jolt of arousal through Stiles. He grips Stiles’ chin between his fingers. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah… please,” Stiles whines, and Peter gives him a lustful smile that’s almost evil, a sinister curl to the edge of his beautiful mouth that makes Stiles wonder what he got himself into. 

Peter leans back and slathers his cock in lube, keeping a grounding hand on Stiles’ thigh. When Peter enters him, there’s a dull ache from the stretch; he’s much bigger than two fingers. Despite their conversation earlier, Stiles still expects him to set a punishing pace right away, to plow past Stiles’ sensitivity and just take until Stiles is a raw shell of a thing, but he doesn’t. He watches Stiles’ face with a vigilance that Stiles has seen from him before, ever the watchful manipulator taking stock of his surroundings, standing in the shadows and waiting for the right moment. 

But it’s not quite that. He’s patiently observing, thrusting in slow and shallow and waiting for something to flicker across Stiles’ face. The ache starts to recede, and Stiles feels so hot from the inside out, a pressure slowly building in the best way, his uncertain grunts giving way to sounds of pleasure once again.

“Better?” Peter asks, and somehow just that one word makes Stiles relax even more.

“Yeah, it’s… fuck, it’s—you feel so good inside me.” Stiles blushes at the confession, but it also feels good to tell him. It feels even better when Peter picks up the pace, fucking him harder and faster, the head of his cock hitting him exactly where it needs to.

Peter leans forward, and Stiles wraps his legs around his waist, his arms winding around his back. The sound of Peter panting in his ear is the most perfect thing he’s ever heard. He wants to hear it a hundred more times. Peter tugs on Stiles’ hair at the root, pulling his head back and sinking his teeth into his neck, and Stiles just begs for more.

“I knew you’d be like this. Such a good boy for me. I bet I could train you to love so many things. What would you do for me, Stiles?” Peter purrs in his ear, his fingers still wrapped tight in Stiles’ hair. Peter reaches down to fist Stiles’ cock, and feeling everything at once—Peter’s relentless thrusts inside him, his hand tight around his dick, his tongue lapping along his neck—is gloriously overwhelming. “Would you let me tie you up and tease you for hours, fucking you until you’re about to come and just… leaving you like that? Over and over again?”

“Yes—god, I’d—yes.” Stiles can barely believe the things he’s saying; he feels a bit possessed, consumed by nothing but this moment, Peter inside him, Peter’s words in his ear. 

“Of course you will. My good boy,” Peter says just before he kisses him, and that’s all it takes. Stiles is coming all over Peter’s hand, and he can feel his ass squeezing Peter’s cock. It’s a stunning sensation, coming with his ass stretched full, and he knows Peter is right. He’ll be pleading for it again in no time at all. As Peter keeps fucking him, everything starts to become over-sensitive, a straddling of pain and pleasure that Stiles likes nonetheless. He lies back, boneless and spent, and watches Peter’s mouth go slack and his eyes squeeze shut. Stiles can feel Peter’s cock twitching inside him, and he feels victorious, knowing that his body made Peter come. 

The room is hazy and soft, like someone pulled a filter over everything when Stiles wasn’t looking. He thinks he could easily drift off if Peter let him, but he’s betting he won’t. 

Peters pulls out and lies beside him, but it’s like the energy in the room has shifted, all the softness fleeing to leave something sharp and cold. He keeps space between the two of them, and he isn’t even looking at Stiles. 

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you probably don’t want me to stay the night?” 

“We wouldn’t want you getting confused about what this is. Besides, I’m not much for sharing a bed unless I have to.” Peter puts an emphasis on  _ have to _ as though retroactively trying to make Stiles feel guilty for bringing about those conditions the last time they touched. “There’s only enough room here for me.” 

“It’s a king size bed.”

“Exactly.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“On that note, your highness, I am definitely leaving.” Taking advantage of the way Peter’s orgasm has slowed him down a bit, Stiles gets on top of him, making sure to press his come-stained belly against Peter as he gives him a kiss. 

“You did that on purpose,” Peter admonishes as he pushes Stiles away.

“You were going to have to take a shower anyway, princess. I’m sorry,  _ king,”  _ Stiles says, standing next to the bed and bending in an exaggerated bow.

“Get out of here before I decide killing you is more satisfying than fucking you.” 

Although Peter is trying to sound assertive, Stiles swears there’s a hint of amusement underneath it, the very beginning of a laugh. Maybe it’s just his belief in his own razor-sharp wit, but Stiles is convinced that, despite Peter’s best efforts to act put-upon by Stiles’ every comment, he finds him to be just a  _ little _ funny. If he really hated it, wouldn’t he just walk away instead of matching him beat for beat? After all, it’s not like Peter couldn’t find other people to have sex with, people who don’t feel the need to fill the silence with sarcasm and pop culture references.

“So uh…” Stiles says as he finishes dressing, not sure how to ask if Peter wants to see him again.

“I’ll find you when I feel like it,” Peter says, getting off the bed and strutting toward the adjoining bathroom. Stiles is pretty sure he’s walking slowly just to give Stiles the full view, and goddamn, it  _ is _ a nice view. “But feel free to try your luck before then. I certainly wouldn’t mind a little begging.”

Peter actually  _ winks _ before he heads into the bathroom. Stiles stands there for a moment, but when he hears the shower running, he finally leaves the bedroom, heading to the front door. 

On the way back to his car, Stiles shivers just thinking about Peter’s fingers inside him, the careful way he opened him up, the way he told him what a good boy he was while he fucked into him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Peter, despite his warnings to the contrary, was deliberately trying to muddle his notions of romance and sex, intertwining the two until Stiles is too confused to know which is which.

Stiles isn’t sure he knew the dividing line before, but he’s even less sure now.

“I am so fucked.” Stiles sighs and leans his forehead against the Jeep’s steering wheel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all who commented on the first chapter! I was very on the fence about sharing this fic and knowing you all were on board made a world of difference!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, lovelies! 
> 
> A few notes about this one: although there's enough text to let you know that things were negotiated with fairly safe practices, this isn't a _perfectly_ negotiated D/s scenario. So I'm just putting the usual "don't use fanfic as a BDSM manual, please read up on safe practices before doing anything irl, fiction is fiction" warning. Let me know if there is anything that should be tagged but isn't! 
> 
> Likewise, let me know if you ever have questions about how I see certain season 4 things playing out? I've tried to strike a good balance between dropping sentences here and there to let you know where we are in that trajectory without like... exhaustively retelling season 4 since I wanted this fic to be more focused on the boys. So I hope nothing is too jarring/confusing!

“Shame on you for making a girl wait,” Peter says, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his fucking skin when he sees Peter sitting in a chair in the corner of his bedroom.

“What the hell are you doing here? Very Edward Cullen of you. Have you been watching me sleep too?” Stiles replies, but there’s no energy behind it. He’s far too drained to deal with Peter right now. 

The past week has just been a merciless chain of stressful events, one dicey situation lining up to take the place of another like some fatal game of musical chairs, and he’s been coasting on fumes and adrenaline, both of which are rapidly running out. Although Violet and Garrett are now dead, it doesn’t really matter since one assassin just picks up where the last one left off. Likewise, figuring out the last cipher key doesn’t feel like much of a victory since all it did is reveal the names of more people he can’t protect. Life is very Sisyphean at the moment, and he’s not sure why he keeps rolling that boulder up the hill and hoping for a different result. He feels like he could sleep for a week, if it weren’t for the racing thoughts he can’t silence. This much stress tends to make every dormant anxiety in his brain bubble up to the surface. He’s thinking about anything and everything that has ever upset him, particularly some old wounds he doesn’t want to share with Peter. 

“I told you I’d come find you when I wanted to.” Peter waves his hand as if to say _ voila, here I am.  _ Like he’s Vanna White presenting the prize, and the prize just happens to be his dick. Stiles really doesn’t need this today.

“Yeah, well,  _ I _ don’t want to so please leave.” Stiles flops onto his back on the bed.

“I seem to recall a very persistent boy invading my apartment without invitation and demanding what he wanted. Now it’s my turn.  _ Quid pro quo, _ Stiles.” Peter gets out of the chair and sits on the edge of the bed, squinting as he looks at Stiles’ face. “Have you been crying?”

“Wow, some great werewolf senses you have there, Peter. You had to get, what, a foot away before you noticed?”

“I sensed that you were agitated, but that’s basically your natural state. Were you really driving around crying in your car? Trying to hit as many points on the spectrum of teenage drama as possible?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He just gets under the blankets and throws them over his head. Peter pulls them down until he can see Stiles’ face.

“What’s wrong?” Peter forces the words out like being kind is an unbearable strain on him.

“Like you give a shit.” 

“Just because I’m not Pollyanna wholesome and saccharine sweet like your dear friend Scott doesn’t mean I’m devoid of all humanity, Stiles. Talk to me.”

“Doesn’t this violate our little ‘all sex, no feelings’ treaty?” 

Peter pauses at that, his eyes shifting to the window. It’s dark outside, moonlight streaming in and painting the bedspread in silvery strips. Peter looks like a formidable creature in this light, the sharp angles of his face a little more severe, like the wolf is shining through, a shimmering ghost underneath the surface. A shudder sweeps through Stiles as he remembers what Peter used to look like when he was an alpha, the hulking, snarling wolf that could tear anyone in two. 

“Yes, it does… But I also have this feeling like I have to be at least marginally warm and fuzzy at a moment like this or you’ll become insufferably pouty and bail on our little arrangement.”

“Okay, just so you know, admitting that you’re faking concern just to get me to sleep with you isn’t a good idea. In order for manipulation to work, the subject has to be unaware that it’s happening. And-and—” Stiles sits up in bed, waving his hands incredulously. It’s like he can’t quite believe the audacity of Peter in this moment, except he totally can. Peter’s infinite capacity to be selfish and thoughtless is something Stiles would do well to never forget. “Why do you really care if our little arrangement crumbles? I’m sure you can find a new toy to play with.”

“I can… but I like this one,” Peter says, and even through the fog of Stiles’ current dejection, the lascivious tone of it goes straight to his dick. “And as you surely know by now, when I want something, I don’t stop until I get it. And when I have it? I don’t easily let go of it.”

“You’re talking about me like I’m a possession, like I’m one of the fucking expensive pieces of furniture in your apartment. I’m a person, Peter.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive ideas, and as I recall, you don’t always mind being a possession.”

Stiles averts his eyes because he can’t exactly argue with that. He’s jerked off to the memory of Peter whispering  _ “my good boy” _ no less than five times. 

Okay, maybe it’s more like ten. 

Against his better judgment, Stiles starts talking, and once he does, it’s a veritable waterfall of words, a gushing flow he can’t stop. 

“The anniversary of my mom’s death is in a few days, and it’s always hard but… with senior year coming up and everyone getting ready to leave Beacon Hills in a year… it’s like all that change is making it worse. I feel crushed in on all sides, and on top of that, I feel super guilty thinking about  _ any _ of this because every supernatural creature in this town is being picked off one by one by killers-for-hire. I can’t pause to process anything; that’s not how my life works. There has to be a revolving door of life-threatening shenanigans at all times because god forbid everything just  _ slow _ down for one goddamn minute so I can breathe?! And I adore my dad, he is the best fucking dad on the planet, but I  _ miss _ her so much sometimes. I should be talking to her about my feelings right now, not the emotionally stunted guy I’m sleeping with.”

Stiles catches his breath, and when he looks over at Peter, he can’t decipher anything in his unreadable expression. 

“See? This isn’t exactly your department,” Stiles mutters, leaning back against the headboard. 

“Forgive me if I find it hard to muster sympathy for the parting of high school friendships. You’re young, you’ll meet so many other people in your life, and they’ll leave too. It’s just what happens. It’s what supposed to happen. As for the dead pool…” Peter turns a furrowed brow toward Stiles’ dry erase board, the webs of yarn connecting ideas and victims and suspects. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have stayed in Eichen House?”

“Wow, you’re really good at this. You should be a therapist. Maybe a grief counselor? Instead of talking people  _ off _ the ledge, you can talk them back onto it. They’ll call you in when they really need someone to commit suicide for the greater good of society.” 

“Talking has never been my strength in these situations,” Peter admits.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” 

“Anything else I can do?” 

Stiles narrows his eyes, trying to decide whether or not Peter is being genuine.

“Yeah, actually…” Stiles almost asks to be held but then changes his mind. He lies on his stomach. “Can you just lay on top of me?” 

He expects Peter to ask why, but the question never comes. Peter just gets on top of him, the entire length of his body pressing Stiles into the mattress.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes… keep doing it.”

“Okay,” Peter whispers, kissing the back of Stiles’ neck. “I’m sorry about your mother, Stiles. I know all too well that wounds like that don’t ever fully heal.”

“Do you miss your family?” The words come out in a distorted rush. This position is kind of squeezing all the air out of his lungs, but he still wants to stay like this as long as he can. He doesn’t feel like anything can get to him like this. Peter is a living, breathing weighted blanket insulating Stiles from all the outside forces that can cause him pain.

“Contrary to what you and everyone else might believe, I do. The pack bond is a strong force, but a family pack? You can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“I think I can,” Stiles says. His friends aren’t technically blood relatives, but they’re real family to him. “And for what it’s worth, I do believe you.” 

Stiles might not be equipped with werewolf senses, but he’s pretty good at sniffing out bullshit. Whatever vile tendencies Peter might possess, Stiles has always gotten the impression that his motivation for trying to kill Kate wasn’t only about her putting him into a coma. There’s this complicated shadow of rage and loneliness that shades Peter’s eyes when he talks about it, and as someone who has also lost people, Stiles recognizes it.

He grunts and shifts underneath Peter, the pressure getting to be too much the longer it goes on.

“Want me to get up?”

“Yeah… sorry, I—” Stiles sucks in a deep breath as Peter rolls off him, “can’t stay like that for too long. But it felt good. Thanks.”

“Do you trust me?” Peter asks, and Stiles can’t help but laugh.

“No. No, I do not.”

“Smart boy.” Peter smiles, and Stiles finds it interesting that although Peter’s conceited as fuck, he seems to value shrewdness above fawning. Peter likes it when Stiles demonstrates an awareness of his less favorable qualities. He might volley an insult back, but he’ll still flash a proud smile while he does it. “I’d like to try something. I think it might help you clear your mind.”

“I’m listening.”

“Do you remember when I told you I wanted to tie you up and tease you for hours?”

“Fuck yeah, I remember that.” Stiles perks up in anticipation, and Peter laughs.

“When is your father coming home?”

“He’s working the night shift so not until morning.”

“Good.” Peter gives Stiles one of those conspiratorial smirks that never fails to make his entire body tingle. Lately, he’s been doing it when they’re around Stiles’ friends. Sometimes, Peter even tempts fate by brushing against Stiles when he walks by, a discrete hand grazing his hip. Stiles knows Peter does it just to watch him sweat, his hands twitching nervously while he glares at Peter, unable to say anything about it for fear of giving them away. It’s especially unfair considering Peter’s the one who demanded they keep this a secret. “Then let’s have some fun, shall we?

  
  


***

“Nervous?” Peter sounds far too happy about that, and Stiles isn’t sure why that makes him shiver in a  _ good _ way. 

“Yeah, it sort of occurred to me that letting you tie me up isn’t the smartest decision.” Stiles is aware that he shouldn’t trust Peter to do this, but Peter was very persuasive. He always is. It’s something he excels at, a glint of excitement in his eye that makes Stiles’ whole body go up in flames. He always seems to know what to say and exactly how to say it, and he was actually very responsible and thorough as they talked this out, setting ground rules and a system for checking in. Apparently, Peter is just going to keep surprising Stiles every time they have sex, and Stiles is very, very okay with that.

Besides, is this any more reckless than jumping into the fray on every mission he’s been on with Scott? At least here he has a chance of having a fantastic orgasm. Plus, he doesn’t really see a reason for Peter to go through the trouble of fucking him just to gain his trust to tie him up and then what? Murder him? If Peter wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. 

“But then you realized if I wanted you dead, you’d already be?” Peter remarks, an eerie bit of mind reading. “And that I’ve never given you a reason to think I would ever do that? If you recall, even when faced with that opportunity, although we barely knew each other, I offered you the bite instead.” 

“Yep, and somehow that’s  _ still _ not exactly comforting.” 

Peter kisses him and strokes his cheek until Stiles melts underneath the touch.

“You have nothing to worry about, Stiles. I’m going to take good care of you. You are the loveliest gift, all wrapped up for me like this.” Peter kisses the space underneath Stiles’ elbow. Stiles’ arms are slightly bent, wrists tied to each other and then bound to the headboard. He’s completely naked, but Peter is still fully clothed.

“You should see me after an all-nighter, all hopped up on Adderall and Mountain Dew, Dorito dust on my shirt, hair sticking up like I had a very unfortunate accident with a light socket.”

“Stop.” Peter slaps Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles’ eyelids flutter. Who knew pain could be so soothing? It’s like a ripple of some brilliant drug winding its way through his veins. Calling that slap  _ pain _ doesn’t even feel accurate, actually. It’s a smarting that hits like lightning and gives way to something else entirely, something that is already making Stiles achingly hard. 

“Stop what?”

“Deflecting with sarcasm and self-deprecation.”

“Excuse me? Pretty sure you wrote the book on sarcasm as a defense mechanism. Don’t throw werewolf fists in glass houses and all that, Mr. ‘if someone catches me expressing an emotion, I melt into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West.’”

“You are such a brat.” Peter slaps his thigh again, and then he lands a blow on the other one. Stiles moans, and Peter licks his lips. He flashes his true eyes, an icy, mesmerizing blue, and Stiles wonders if it means Peter’s as affected by this as he is. “That’s different. If someone compliments me, I graciously take it.”

“Since when are grace and conceit the same thing?”

“The point is,” Peter curls a fist in Stiles’ hair and yanks his head back, “you should accept it when someone tells you something nice, particularly if it’s someone who uses compliments quite sparingly. Someone such as myself.” Peter is wearing his patented  _ I’ve had enough of your foolishness don’t be willfully obtuse _ expression so Stiles nods as much as he can. “You are so very lovely, and I would like it very much if you’d let me tell you that. I would also appreciate it,” Peter tightens his fingers in Stiles’ hair, and the tingles running through his scalp are such a fucking addictive thing, “if you’d stop being a brat and thank me for it.”

“Okay,” Stiles says shakily. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you.” 

“Good boy.” Peter nods with a satisfied smile, letting go of Stiles’ hair and tracing his fingers down his body, pausing to stroke and admire each feature in explicit detail, his stomach, his hips, the tender insides of his thighs still red from Peter’s palms.

“Why are you doing this?”

“If you could see how you look right now, you wouldn’t be asking me that.” Peter quirks an eyebrow and strokes his fingers back up to Stiles’ collarbone. It’s a feather-light touch, almost tickling but not quite, a maddening balance on the edge.

“I just mean… you’re being kind of… doting?” Stiles clarifies. “I guess I expected something…”

“Stiles, there’s a balance to these things, if you’re doing it right. It’s not just about you doing what I want. It’s about me figuring out what you need from this and finding a way to give it to you under the guise of taking what I want. Although I am being a little softer,” Peter leans in to whisper in Stiles’ ear, laying his body on top of him, the scratch of denim against his bare cock making him hiss, “what’s pain without the element of surprise?”

Stiles hears the click of Peter’s claws popping out, and then he feels a sting on his left side. It’s more intense than the slaps, and Stiles has to breathe his way through it, the shock like the sudden pang of stepping on glass you didn’t know was there.

“Color?” Peter asks, and it takes Stiles a moment to understand.

“Green. So green. I like you,” Stiles whines, the words coming out unbidden and almost childlike in their sincerity, an earnest confession to a new friend on the playground. He’s not sure why he said it. It just felt right.

Peter chuckles like he’s not sure where that came from either.

“Do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Stiles nods, and his head feels heavy and light all at once. Like he’s pleasantly fatigued and about to float off somewhere nice and comfortable. 

“Amazing… you’re almost there already, aren’t you?” Peter asks as he slaps Stiles’ thigh again.

“Almost… where?” Stiles asks lazily. His hands are going numb from the restraints, but it’s a good loss of sensation, like the burden of feeling has been lifted and he can just stay suspended on this newfound cloud of happiness.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck you now, okay?” Peter gives him a long, deep kiss, and Stiles nods.

He watches Peter undress, and he wonders if the glow of that will ever fade, the anticipation and then the reveal, the excitement of looking at him and knowing he gets to feel that against his own body.

Peter doesn’t prep him this time; he just coats his cock in lube and pushes in slowly, watching Stiles the whole time. It’s an easier slide than Stiles thought it would be, but then again, ever since they had sex, he’s uh… gotten a bit enthusiastic with his fingers when he jerks off. It’s never as good as this though. How could anything ever be?

Peter’s hands are firm on his hips, and he’s fucking Stiles the way he expected him to that first time. It’s hard and fast, and Stiles feels used in the best way. It’s exactly what he didn’t even know he needed, lying back and letting someone else take over, relieving him of the need to think or make a decision about any of the myriad problems that are plaguing his life right now.

“I love making you feel good,” Stiles gasps, and he smiles when he sees another flash of sapphire in Peter’s eyes. Peter lets out a possessive growl and grips Stiles’ thighs, the tips of his claws coming out again to drag across the skin, and Stiles yelps as he starts to come. “I d-didn’t—I—” he stutters, throwing his head back, dissolving into a litany of curses and moans. 

The next thing Stiles knows, his hands are being untied, and Peter is rubbing the sensation back into them. 

“Wh-what—did you? I didn’t see—”

Peter laughs and kisses his wrist.

“Oh, I definitely did. You were just too far gone to notice.” 

“I didn’t know I could come like that…” Stiles says, dazed and still underneath the thumb of that new lightness. He feels sort of thin and gauzy, like a curtain blowing in the breeze. It seems impossible that he’s really a solid flesh and blood thing lying down on a bed.

“I didn’t either, but now we both know. Not everyone can do that.” Peter is still rubbing Stiles’ wrists, pins and needles flooding back into the skin, and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say Peter looks awestruck. Stiles folds himself into Peter, not wrapping his arms around him but laying his hands on his chest instead. He laughs as he realizes he probably looks like a cat folding its legs underneath its body. Peter just strokes up and down his back, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair every now and then. “You were very good for me tonight.”

“Really? I didn’t last that long. I’m guessing you probably had more things in mind.” Stiles is coming back down from his cloud, but it’s a gradual shift, a feather riding the wind and slowly cascading to the ground.

“I figured that would happen. It was a lot of new sensations at once. You did very well,” Peter says, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re being so… comforting?” Stiles snuggles into Peter’s embrace with a pleased hum.

“Doing this and skipping the aftercare would be tantamount to psychological torture.” 

“You say that like you don’t have a track record for being into psychological torture.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says with a rumbling laugh.

“What does this mean for us?” Stiles feels the impact of Peter’s heavy sigh, his chest rising and falling. He listens to the lulling rhythm of Peter’s heart and thinks it could usher him into slumber. What is it about being around a very dangerous werewolf that seems to always make Stiles so fucking relaxed?!

“Barely a few minutes out of subspace, and you’re already back to analyzing every little thing, aren’t you? You really are a challenge, Stiles.”

“Is that why you like me?”

“It’s definitely part of it.”

“You didn’t answer my first question,” Stiles murmurs into Peter’s neck, scraping his teeth along Peter’s pulse point.

“It means we have some compatible predilections that are going to make this even more fun. Don’t think about it too much.”

“Are you regretting this?” When Peter doesn’t answer right away, Stiles feels the familiar knock of anxiety at the edge of his brain. 

“Regret is a useless emotion,” Peter finally replies.

“That wasn’t an answer.” 

“I’m not,” Peter says, and then he pulls back, tilting Stiles’ chin up with his forefinger and meeting his gaze. “I’m not.” 

“You do look concerned though,” Stiles points out. 

“Concern and regret aren’t the same thing, but yes, I am concerned for a few reasons. Aren’t you?” 

“Yeah…” Stiles admits, “but I’m trying not to be.” 

“That makes two of us.”

“Well, at least we’re on the same confused page.”

They share a laugh, and although Stiles still has questions, they can wait. This is good enough for now.

“Will you stay?” Stiles whispers, burying his face in Peter’s chest.

“For a little while, but I don’t want this night ending in your dad pointing a gun at me.”

“Stay until I fall asleep?”

“Okay.”

Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, Peter is gone and so is the moonlight.

  
  


***

  
  


“This is all the money Garrett and Violet got for taking out people on the Benefactor’s list. Scott found it in Garrett’s lacrosse locker.” Stiles plops the bag down on the coffee table in Peter’s living room. “Sorry for not getting it to you earlier. I…”

“You were thinking about keeping it?” Peter doesn’t sound angry about that, merely curious, but Stiles nods and sheepishly looks down at the floor.

“Shouldn’t you be mad about that?” Stiles asks. Peter cants his head like he’s weighing out the options.

“If I found money like that, I would absolutely keep it. While I’m not exactly happy that you contemplated robbing me, maybe I like knowing my reprobate influence is rubbing off on you. Which begs the question… why didn’t you keep it?” Peter asks, crossing his arms and slowly walking toward Stiles. “Let me guess, because it would be  _ so wrong?”  _ His tone is beyond patronizing, and Stiles doesn’t really understand  _ why _ considering that the decision to give the money back is pretty damn beneficial to Peter. “What would you have done with it, if you had kept it?”

“My dad is in debt from everything that happened to me last year. My MRI, the stay in Eichen House. I don’t know what he’s gonna do.” Stiles sits down on the red sofa and grips his wrist, running his fingers back and forth on the thin skin until it burns. “Scott’s mom is struggling to pay bills too. It’s not looking great for either of us.”

“How Robin Hood of you.” Peter sits down next to him and gently grabs Stiles’ hand, pulling it away from his wrist so he can’t keep rubbing red splotches into it. “You could have just asked me for the money.”

“You wouldn’t give me money like that. Not without something in return.”

“Smart boy.”

“You know, every time you say that, it sounds less like a compliment and more like a warning of things to come.” Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the crisis he just came out the other side of or what, but his hackles are raised. Talking to Scott about how Peter might try to get into Malia’s head makes him feel really stupid for not worrying about the same thing lately. He’s let his guard slip too much. Peter’s motivations are always murky, and if he’s trying to gunk up Stiles’ emotional plumbing with a perplexing mixture of passionate sex followed by cold, calculated distance, well… Stiles should figure out why before it’s too late. “By the way, where were you when your daughter was slowly dying of a virus in the vault?”

“How is she?” Peter asks, and it’s so fucking typical of him. He can’t ever just answer a damn question; there always has to be a circuitous path of rubbish to wade through. 

“She’s fine,” Stiles grits out. “I’ve been helping her on the full moons, you know.” 

“You have?” Peter’s shrewd eyes brighten, and Stiles can feel a rising eddy of fury gathering in his chest. Peter doesn’t get to be skeptical of Stiles’ prowess in this area, not when he hasn’t been there to help Malia through any of it. His total lack of fatherly influence gives new meaning to the phrase  _ “the bare minimum.” _

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done it before. I was there for Scott. I know what I’m doing,” Stiles snaps, hunching over, his elbows braced on his knees. “She’s getting better every time. She’s strong.” 

“Of course she is.”

Stiles rolls his eyes because it’s obvious that the implication is that she’s inherited her strength from Peter, but Peter doesn’t have any right to lay claim to any of Malia’s traits. Not when he hasn’t been there for her while she tries to tame those urges.

“Why are you suddenly interested in my absent parenting?” Peter queries.

“I don’t know… since I had to save her life while you were mysteriously nowhere to be found?”

“No… that’s not it.” Peter leans an elbow against the back of the couch, his head resting on his fist as he watches Stiles. “What is this really about?”

“Do you have some sort of ulterior motive with me? Is there like an ultra sinister reason for sleeping with me that’s gonna reveal itself in the third act?”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze boring into Stiles until he has to look away.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Wow… Jesus Christ, Peter. I—thank you for your honesty, I guess?!” Stiles rubs his forehead. He swears he can feel a three-day migraine coming on. 

“You knew who I was when this started, and I was also careful to remind you of that. My mercurial, self-serving nature is not a surprise. That  _ said, _ no, I don’t have any designs at the moment. I’m just not comfortable saying no to something that could change.”

“Everything is so fucking confusing right now. Why did you… do what you did that night when you tied me up?” The tenderness, the attentive care was followed by… nothing. Not a text, not a call, certainly not another unexpected visit. Stiles feels a little stupid for caving so quickly, proving himself to be the teenager who can’t separate sex and emotions, just like Peter said he would be. It’s not like he didn’t agree to this, but… Stiles isn’t really good at the casual thing. He should have known better. It’s not in his nature. He’s a loyal guy. A sensitive guy. A relationship guy.

“Stiles, I can enjoy sexually satisfying you and still be a potentially manipulative bastard. There’s no reason both of these things can’t be true.”

“So I guess I just have to deal with this constant, sinking feeling of dread or stop sleeping with you?”

“Has anyone ever told you that anticipatory anxiety doesn’t really help anything? Why don’t you just enjoy yourself and stop worrying about what might happen?” Peter lets out a deep sigh. Stiles doesn’t think Peter’s taking any of this very seriously, and why should he? If things go south, Peter will most assuredly walk away unscathed and unbothered. It’ll be Stiles who finds himself lying in pieces on the floor.

“It’s helped keep me alert and alive in many situations of the supernatural variety, thank you very much.” 

“Fine… Yes, I guess those are your two options, but I wouldn’t say it’s a shift. It’s what this has been since day one. So what’ll it be?”

“I don’t know yet,” Stiles says, unable to resist parroting Peter’s words back at him. He gets up to leave, and when he reaches the front door, he looks over his shoulder. “By the way, Malia knows you’re her father now.”

He doesn’t wait around to see Peter’s reaction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote one of you lovely commenters, I think this chapter is very "Peter is the best at being the worst," but I promise he'll pick a lane eventually... mostly. :)
> 
> Also, spanking is great and all, but my subby ass thinks thigh slaps are underrated so I had to do it. Just sayin'.
> 
> ALSO also (I never shut up, do I?), this fic's google doc is 35k and counting so there's at least that much awaiting you haha.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Fuck It Friday, my friends (ETA: IT IS NOT FRIDAY, I have just finally succumbed to the "what day is it?!" disorientation after 8 months of quarantine/work from home lolol), and by that I mean "I am so sleep deprived and having the worst day so I just wanted to escape into Steter and give you a new chapter." 
> 
> You know that tag I put up, "Peter is allergic to feelings but he has them anyway?" Here is our trash dad reluctantly sliding into his feelz.
> 
> A fair bit of canon dialogue is used in this one because we're getting into the Big Events that happen in the last few eps of s4. Also, Lydia's "best sex of your life guy" comment? She's quoting _Trainwreck_. :)

“So what’s going on with you and Peter?” Lydia asks, a pitch to her voice that lets Stiles know she’s thrilled about being perceptive enough to notice what’s happening. Lydia might be miles from who she was when Stiles first met her, but there are still vestiges of the reigning gossip queen. She always has her finger on the pulse of the community around her. Sometimes it’s charming, but right now? It’s more than a little inconvenient. 

“What? Nothing. Nothing’s going on. Why-why would you say that? Why would there be anything going on between us? Did he say something?” Stiles keeps his eyes on the road as they drive to Eichen House, but it’s not like it matters if he avoids Lydia’s incisive gaze. As usual, his mouth has already betrayed him. 

“Smooth, Stiles. So Peter Hale just… suddenly keeps looking at you like a really juicy porterhouse steak he wants to sink his teeth into, and there’s no reason for that?”

“Yep, guess so.” 

“Uh huh. Who gave you that hickey?” 

“Uhhh… a girl… a girl I’ve been seeing.” Stiles self-consciously adjusts the collar on his shirt even though it’s a totally useless gesture at this point. “It's—she wants to keep it on the down low so that’s why I haven’t told any of you about it. That’s all.” 

“Stiles… I know  _ everyone _ you know. Beacon Hills isn’t all that big. If there was a girl, I’d have figured it out by now.” 

“Okay, fine.” Stiles knows he shouldn’t say anything, but he’s actually dying to talk about it. He’s been fucked and Dom-ed, and he hasn’t been able to flail about it to a single person. “Yes, Peter and I have been…” How best to describe their weird non-relationship without using the crudest terms? 

“Fucking?” Lydia provides, and Stiles blushes.

“Lydia just… please don’t tell anyone, okay? Peter doesn’t want anyone to know, and honestly? I don’t either. I have enough on my plate without adding in Scott’s reaction to this.” 

“Can’t say I blame you. That would be an absolute shitshow, and we do  _ not _ have time for more of those.” Lydia’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head, presumably imagining what horrors would ensue if the pack found out. “My lips are sealed.”

“Yeah, it’s just easier without everyone giving their opinion on how fucked up this is. Like, I  _ know _ how fucked up it is. No one needs to have the giant pimple on their face pointed out to them. Speaking of which… do you think I’m a terrible person?” Stiles’ pulse is racing, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as he waits for her answer.

“No.” Lydia shakes her head, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “Making questionable decisions? Definitely. But a terrible person? No. The heart or… the hormones want what they want. I mean, I was in love with Jackson who turned out to be a kanima on a murderous rampage. And  _ then _ I slept with Aidan who helped kill Boyd and was just… generally not the most reliable of guys? So I don’t think I’m allowed to judge you. But just because I’m not judging you doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. A little friendly advice? Be careful. Have fun, but don’t get too attached. He’s Peter. You have to remember that.”

“Yeah, but sometimes he’s… I don’t know, I have to wonder what he was like before the fire. Because he’s not always—”

“Oh no,” Lydia interrupts, holding up a hand. “Do not start down that road. Thinking you can fix the bad boy is about the worst mistake you can make. Trust me. I know. And just so we’re clear, the second I feel like you need a Peter Hale intervention? I  _ will _ call in reinforcements.”

“I know I can’t fix Peter. I’m just saying… he’s not 100% evil. Most people aren’t. Most people are a complicated combination of everything that’s ever happened to them, every thought, every action. He cares about his family. He might act like Derek is just a big thorn in his side, but I know he doesn’t really feel that way. And I know he’s more than a little curious about Malia.”

“Is that really enough though? Anyone can be interested in being a real person, in being a father, but it’s not the same as actually  _ trying. _ Maybe you’re looking for things in Peter that aren’t there because you feel guilty about sleeping with him. Never forget he’s the same guy who left me to bleed out on the lacrosse field.”

“Yeah… maybe you’re right.” Stiles feels like his lungs have deflated and been replaced by an anvil sitting on his chest. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone like Lydia in his life, and he feels immeasurably guilty because yeah… Peter  _ is _ the one who almost killed her. In some ways, that feels like a whole lifetime ago, but it wasn’t. Not really.

“What’s going on with Beacon Hills dads though?! Argent shows up with Isaac, and they are  _ clearly _ an item, no one can tell me otherwise, and now you and Peter?”

There were a lot of not-so-covertly exchanged glances when Chris and Isaac came back to Beacon Hills, suddenly very tactile and affectionate with each other, but it seems like everyone has tacitly agreed not to bring it up. There are a lot of other things taking precedent right now, and Stiles is guessing no one really wants to bother Chris about it. I mean, the guy has endured more trauma than most people could withstand. 

At the moment, Stiles is grateful to be talking about something a little less deadly and a little more gossipy. It almost makes life seem normal for a minute, like they’re just hanging out instead of driving to Eichen House to investigate ten suicides that were most likely murders. Like the biggest problem in their teenage lives is deciding who they’re going to ask to prom.

“Maybe it’s the constant threat of death. Brings a real  _ carpe diem _ urge to your life. You just say ‘fuck it’ and have sex with whoever you want.”

“Good point. I can’t blame Isaac either. Chris Argent is and has always been the sexiest dad in Beacon Hills.”

“It’s those fucking eyes, right?” Stiles smiles, and Lydia laughs and nods.

“Yes! And the beard. And the muscles. Honestly, it’s everything.”

“Weirdly, I sort of understand him and Isaac. They’re both just so…”

“I know!” Lydia jumps in, excitedly bouncing in her seat. “Quiet, broody, shared trauma. They’re kinda made for each other. Grief makes people closer sometimes. I don’t know what happened between them in France, but I’m glad neither of them are alone. They were both such lonely people. They deserve to be happy.”

“Hey… thanks for talking about all this.”

“Stiles, you can always talk to me, okay? Even when it’s hard.”

“Thanks, Lydia. You’re a good friend.”

“But will you  _ please _ let me teach you how to cover up those hickeys with makeup? You’re looking kinda tacky, honey. Plus, your secret isn’t going to stay a secret much longer if you keep showing up looking like you’ve been mauled.”

“God, yes, I accept that help. Pretty sure it would be super fucking suspicious if I suddenly started wearing turtlenecks.”

“Soooooo, are we gonna talk about it or not?” Lydia asks with a sparkle in her eye, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips.

“Talk about what?” Stiles frowns, trying to guess what she’s after.

“The sex! Come on, Stiles, this is how dishing works. Girl code 101.” Lydia rolls her eyes like she thinks this should be obvious to him.

“Are you sure you want to know? I mean, this is Peter we’re talking about.”

“Stiles, have you ever heard the saying ‘you don’t marry the best-sex-of-your-life guy; that guy is in prison?’”

“No, and I’m pretty sure you just made that up.”

“Shut up, Stiles. The point is, I’m guessing Peter Hale is like… the perfect example of that. Am I wrong?”

“You are… not wrong at all,” Stiles says with a grin. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“Yes! Tell me everything.” Lydia claps her hands excitedly, and Stiles hopes she knows just how much he appreciates her.

  
  


***

  
  


“I'll admit, Stiles, I don't have any unusual talents like Lydia, but, somehow, I just knew we were gonna get a chance to do this again,” Brunski says, and Stiles struggles against his bonds. If Stiles could go one year (hell, even just one month) without a psychopath trying to kill him, that would be great. Brunski has always been a very untrustworthy sleaze—it’s hard to find a staff member at Eichen House who isn’t—but Stiles thought he was your garden variety douchebag, not a killer. As Brunski heads toward Lydia, the syringe raised in one hand, Stiles starts to panic and struggle even harder. 

“No, no, no, no! Stop! Leave her alone!” Stiles desperately shouts, thrashing around and making no headway. 

“Drop it. Take your thumb off that needle and slowly withdraw it from her neck.” Deputy Parrish steps into view, and Stiles breathes easy for the first time since Brunski trapped them down here. 

“Young Deputy. You're just a kid,” Brunski turns to Parrish with an ugly smile, the needle beginning to pierce Lydia’s neck, “I bet you've never even fired a—” 

Seemingly out of thin air, Peter appears behind Parrish, rushing into the room and closing the distance in a matter of seconds, his hand around Brunski’s throat. Brunski drops the needle, his mouth hanging open, feeble choking sounds coming from the depths of his throat.

“You know, that  _ is _ the trouble with guns. So much can go wrong. But these?” Peter holds up his free hand, and his claws pop out. “Never had them backfire. Not once. Well… okay,  _ once, _ but that was a one in a million kind of thing.”

“Peter, don’t. Do you want your money back or not?! You can’t get any answers out of a dead man!” Stiles yells, and Peter’s eyes flash a furious blue.

“He’s right, Peter,” Parrish says, still steadily training the gun on Brunski. 

“None of you are any fun,” Peter says with a groan, loosening his grip on the man. In the split second he’s free, Brunski tries to lunge toward Lydia, but Parrish puts a bullet in his shoulder before he can. “Oh, of course. Your violence is somehow sanctioned by the law. How convenient for you.”

“He… he killed my grandmother. He was controlling Meredith,” Lydia gasps, trying to catch her breath. 

“He used her to create the dead pool,” Stiles tells Peter as he unties him. 

“And killed her when she tried to help us,” Lydia adds. Peter moves to untie her while Parrish is bent over Brunski. Brunski laughs, coughing up scarlet beads of blood.

“You… you think it was me?” Brunski weakly says, panting like every breath is too much effort. Stiles scowls. Maybe he should have let Peter kill the bastard. “That I was controlling her?” Brunski sputters out another wet, bloody laugh. “Idiots… She was controlling me.” 

“Oh, god. It's not him. He's not the Benefactor.” Lydia exchanges a terrified glance with Stiles, and then Meredith is standing in the doorway. 

“No. And he wasn't on my list. But he was a bad person,” Meredith says, staring down at Brunski as he takes his final breath.

“Well… so much for not killing him.” Peter sighs like he’s deeply disappointed he wasn’t the one to take Brunski’s life.

  
  


***

  
  


“Can you at least text me before you’re about to plunge into death-defying stupidity? You are small and very breakable, Stiles. I am neither small nor breakable. Take advantage of that,” Peter scolds Stiles as they drive to the hospital. Lydia is on her way to the station with Parrish, Meredith in tow. Stiles wanted to go with them. He’s dying to learn the missing pieces that will shift into place to end this mystery. He’s spent countless hours tracking everything, obsessing over every minute detail, every hint of a pattern. It’s only fair that he gets a little closure when they’re so close to unraveling it all, but Peter insisted he needed to go to the hospital.

“What?! I didn’t  _ know _ that’s what we were headed into. And since when am I supposed to tell you about my every move?!” Stiles gesticulates wildly—he’s always talked with his hands, can’t be helped—and miscalculates the distance, bashing his hand against the window, adding another injury to the list. 

“I can’t fathom why you have this need to be the defender of the whole damn world, but these people aren’t your responsibility. You could have been killed.” 

“These  _ people _ are my friends! I care about them, and I care about the innocent strangers being slaughtered too because that’s how normal people who have a conscience  _ feel _ about this sort of thing, Peter! Besides, every supernatural creature killed means less money for you. You should be glad I’ve been trying to solve this while you sit on your selfish ass. What do you even do all day, Peter?” 

It’s a tense few minutes after that; Stiles can swear he sees the air in the car shrinking, replaced by something unbreathable and thick. Neither of them are saying anything, and Peter looks like he could chew through glass. 

“I didn’t like…” Peter sighs, takes a hard swallow, and starts again. “I didn’t like seeing you in danger. I wasn’t expecting to feel that strongly, but I don’t like your precarious mortality. It’s… stressful.”

Stiles bursts out laughing because Peter Hale trying his hardest to Not Have a Feeling is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He looks constipated, his face screwed up into a tight, pinched expression of distaste. 

“You’re laughing at me right now? And supposedly I’m the cruel one…” 

“I’m sorry… It’s just… you should see yourself right now. You look like you stepped into a puddle of water with socked feet. Look, Peter, I  _ am _ precariously mortal. It’s not gonna change, and it’s also not anything new.” 

“Scott could bite you.” 

“I don’t want that. You know I don’t want that.”

“Power, healing, super strength, heightened senses, you don’t want any of that? You’re content to have migraines and the flu and broken bones for the rest of your life when the solution is right at your fingertips?”

“You’re forgetting a few things.” Stiles holds up his fingers and starts ticking off the cons of wolfdom one by one. “The bite might kill you. Other supernatural creatures who want to steal your power might kill you. Hunters might kill you. Deadly, rare forms of wolfsbane might  _ slowly _ kill you. You have this weird like… tunnel vision. You think everyone wants what you have because why wouldn’t they when  _ you _ love it. But the thing is… people are different. They want different things. You have to realize that.”

Stiles shifts in his seat, the seatbelt suddenly too tight as he realizes it sounds like he’s talking about something else. Judging by the way Peter’s doing his best not to meet Stiles’ eyes, Stiles is guessing he’s thinking the exact same thing. 

  
  


***

  
  


“I'm completely and totally fine,” Stiles protests, trying to get up from the hospital bed.

“Uh-uh-uh.” Melissa shakes her head and gently pushes on Stiles’ shoulder until he’s sitting back down. “You completely and totally have a concussion, Stiles. Lie back down. The doctor said you're not leaving without a CT scan. Peter was right to bring you here.” 

“Maybe listen to the person whose job it is to determine these things, Stiles.” Peter is standing against the wall, arms crossed, looking very unamused and too cool for school, like some werewolf James Dean in a leather jacket. It’s a bizarre situation, and Melissa’s eyes are darting back and forth between them like she wants to ask but knows now isn’t the time. 

“We still haven't paid for the last one,” Stiles says quietly, and he’s not sure why he’s keeping his voice down considering Peter already knows about his father’s financial troubles. Besides, Peter’s werewolf hearing makes whispering an exercise in futility. “I have to get to the station.” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Melissa says with a shake of her head, thwarting Stiles’ attempt to leave with another hand on his shoulder. “Meredith is at the station. Your dad said it could take some time, but he will get her to talk. Even if I let you go, what would you do?” 

“Okay, fine,” Stiles grunts, flopping onto the bed. Melissa isn’t totally wrong. Mostly, Stiles would just be sitting there and waiting, watching his father and Lydia try to wring answers out of an unwieldy Meredith. He wouldn’t be much help in his current jittery, fatigued state, but damn, he really wants to be there to see what happens.

Melissa leaves, and then he’s left alone with Peter.

“Can you stop lurking in the corner like Dracula? It’s making me nervous. Sit down.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, but he actually does as he’s told, sitting in one of the chairs to the right of the bed.

“You don’t have to worry about the hospital bills,” Peter says.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I took care of it, and when a new one inevitably crops up after this visit, I’ll take care of that too. So stop looking like you’re wound so tight, your ass could turn coal into diamonds.”

_ “Ferris Beuller’s Day Off?”  _ Stiles cants his head and smiles.

“Paraphrased, but yes.” Peter smiles back, and Stiles feels warm from head to toe, like he just took a muscle relaxer and everything is finally uncoiling. 

“You watch movies? Like an actual person who has interests beyond plotting and scheming and leaving behind a trail of destruction?”

“Yes, I do things beyond the Machiavellian, Stiles.”

“I can’t believe you paid those bills. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s not a lot of money to me, in the grand scheme of things.” Peter shrugs. “But I know it is to you.”

“You care about me,” Stiles says with a victorious smile.

“I’ve never claimed not to.”

“No, but you  _ did _ say you weren’t sure that you aren’t going to use me as a pawn in one of your aforementioned schemes.”

“I said that…” There’s that tone again.  _ I’m speaking slowly because you’re being purposely obstinate. _ Stiles is sure Peter wants it to be intimidating, but it always amuses him. He’s fond of it. He thinks of it as part of their bantery dance. “Because giving you a definitive ‘no’ for something that has yet to be determined would be setting you up for disappointment. If it turned out later that I did do that, you would feel betrayed. I didn’t want to potentially lie to you. That’s all.”

“Well, considering you’re a liar by nature, I guess not wanting to lie to me counts for something.”

“I don’t lie.” 

Stiles snorts.

“I obfuscate,” Peter clarifies with a wave of his hand. “I omit. I prey on the weaknesses in the perception of people around me. But no, I don’t lie. Not really. Not outright.” 

“Pretty twisted words for the same goddamned thing,” Stiles barks, immediately regretting it when he realizes he hasn’t even thanked Peter yet. “Sorry, I’m just a little irritable from the whole near death experience. You—”

“Stiles, have you not realized by now that I like your jagged edges? Do you think I’d suffer the company of someone who pretended I’m not an asshole?”

“No… I guess not,” Stiles laughs. “Thank you for paying that bill. It means so much to me; you have no idea.”

“I know. Now let’s get this scan over with. Meredith needs to tell me where my money is, and I need a long, hot bath and a glass of wine to wash this day off me.” Peter starts to walk toward the door, but Stiles tugs on the bottom of his shirt. Peter turns around. “What?”

“Come here,” Stiles says, scooting over on the bed and patting the spot next to him. Peter quirks an eyebrow, but he sits down anyway. Stiles reaches a hand up to cup Peter’s cheek, but Peter moves away.

“Need I remind you that your best friend’s mother is wandering around here and could pop back in at any moment?”

“Just one kiss. Please?” Stiles rubs Peter’s thigh and gives him his best pouty puppy dog eyes. Peter shakes his head, but he leans in and kisses Stiles all the same.

“Stop smiling like that,” Peter grumbles, but he’s smiling too.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the Grinch whose heart just grew three sizes. I paid a hospital bill. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“You like me,” Stiles says, his smile widening.

“I’m going to go see what’s taking them so long,” Peter says with an eye roll.

“You liiiiikkkee me!” Stiles sing-songs at Peter’s retreating back. “Breaking news: Peter Hale has a heart!”

  
  


***

  
  


“Then you better make it a perfect shot, Sheriff, because I don't go down easy,” Peter warns, eerily calm for someone who has a gun pointed at his forehead, a gun held by Stiles’ father.

“Dad… listen to me. Lydia’s right. This is what Meredith wants,” Stiles says, holding his hands out in supplication, taking a step forward, but just one step. 

_ “Approach slowly, like you’re trying to get closer to a stray cat that you know is gonna bolt the second you look like a threat.” _

Stiles remembers his father’s words, the way he taught him how to be level-headed during a crisis. He’s the most practical man Stiles knows. He’s not impulsive. He doesn’t think in terms of vengeance, but even a man like that has his limits. It’s Stiles’ responsibility to bring him back to himself. 

“I'm willing to bet that a bullet between the eyes doesn't heal real fast… not even for your kind,” Stiles’ father says, and it’s like he doesn't even know Stiles is there, like he hasn’t heard a word. 

“Stop. Please, stop,” Lydia pleads. 

“This department's getting more corrupted by the second. What are you going to charge me with, Sheriff? How are you going to explain this to a judge? Telepathic girl overhears thoughts of comatose werewolf and decides to enact his plans for retribution? Hmm.” Peter clicks his tongue, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. Up until that point, Peter was actually making some good headway, throwing some logic into the mix that Stiles knows his father is considering, but that sassy little tongue click? Not the best move. Trust Peter to remain defiant even in the face of potential death. “They're going to be pointing a gun at your head and asking you to go quietly.” 

“Let him go. You  _ have _ to let him go,” Lydia tries again. 

“I'd take the word of a banshee, Sheriff. I leave. No triggers pulled. No blood shed,” Peter offers, and Stiles takes another step forward. 

“Dad… this isn’t you, okay? Just take a breath. Step away.” 

This time, his father does hear him. He looks over at Stiles, the fury subsiding in his eyes as he gives a knowing nod and lowers his gun.

“That's twice, Peter. There's not gonna be a third. Be glad I have a son who knows how to keep me calm. You helped save his life today, but that doesn’t erase the rest.” 

Peter’s eyes flit over to Stiles, and there isn’t any kindness in them. When Peter leaves, Stiles really wants to follow him, even though he’s pretty sure that’s the last thing Peter wants.

“I um… I have to ask him something. I’ll be back,” Stiles says to Lydia. For now, his father is occupied with talking to Deputy Parrish. Maybe Stiles can sidle away. 

“Okay…” Her forehead is creased with worry, but she nods.

Stiles jogs down the hall, and when he catches up to Peter, he puts a hand on his shoulder. Peter scowls down at Stiles’ hand, and Stiles drops it immediately. 

“You know, you’ve really perfected that withering stare. You would have made a great nun. Or even just a regular grade school teacher. I don’t know what it is about teaching kids, but it  _ really _ seems to attract people who actually hate kids. The withering stares abound.”

“Stiles, is there a reason you’re keen to have a little chat after your father just pointed a gun at my head and threatened to kill me?”

“Yeah, actually, I—” Stiles grunts as he holds out his hand to catch the front door to the police station, a door Peter didn’t bother to hold open for him after he went through it. 

Peter gets into his car, and while the doors are unlocked, Stiles swoops into the passenger seat.

“Stiles, I cannot stress enough how very much I’m not in the mood right now. It’s been a long day. I’d like to go back to my very nice apartment, drink some very expensive wine, and plot the demise of everyone who has ever wronged me.”

“Am I on that list?” 

“You’re about to be if you don’t get the fuck out of my car.”

“I just want to talk, okay? Can you just drive?”

“What part of get the fuck out of my car do you not understand?” Peter snaps.

Stiles hears the front door of the police station opening and sees Lydia and his father talking as he holds the door open for her. They aren’t looking in their direction yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Peter, unless you want my dad to pull a gun on you for the second time today, I suggest you drive.”

Peter mumbles under his breath about how this is what he gets for thinking with his dick, but he pulls out of the parking lot while Stiles nervously watches for his dad.

“Are you planning on explaining what it is you want any time soon?” Peter grunts, eyes purposely trained forward.

“You were right.” 

Peter perks up a little, and Stiles knew he would. Appealing to Peter’s ego and sense of self-righteousness is usually a safe bet.

“They don’t have any idea what it was like for you,” Stiles continues. “To be trapped in your own head for years, to be paralyzed but still aware of everything. Most people couldn’t have survived that, and they don’t have the right to judge what was going through your mind back then.” 

When Peter was describing how painful it was to be in a coma and unable to fully heal, to be slowly driven insane by his own mind, Stiles felt a tug of sympathy and more than a shred of familiarity. Lydia and his dad didn’t even seem to register the emotion behind Peter’s words. They were too preoccupied with their own anger and need for answers, but Stiles saw that hint of pain in Peter’s eyes. To everyone else in the room, he looked like the conniving villain, but Stiles recognized it for what it was. Reliving all of those memories hurt Peter, and Stiles can see the anguish still lingering in the way his knuckles are gripping the steering wheel, the tension in his jaw. Peter’s ire is usually a slow, controlled seethe, but it’s headed toward volcanic territory right now.

“It’s a wonder I have any remnants of sanity left,” Peter admits quietly. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t want your pity, Stiles.” 

“It’s not pity. I mean, I feel trapped by my own head all the time. I can’t imagine not being able to funnel all that crazy energy into something,  _ anything _ to make it all quiet up here for a bit.” Stiles points to his temple, and Peter’s eyes shift over to him for the briefest of moments. “I can’t ever get my brain to shut up. And when I was losing time last year? When dreams and reality blended with the Nogitsune? It was pure hell. Maybe not the same kind of hell, but… I  _ do _ know what it’s like for your own mind to be a prison, to be something you can’t trust. I know what it’s like to be aware of what’s happening but unable to do anything about it. So when I say I’m sorry, it’s not pity. It’s solidarity, okay?”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Stiles wonders if he’s about to pull over to the side of the road and kick him out.

“Do you know why you interest me?” Peter eventually asks.

“Because you were in the market for a fuck buddy, and you think I have a nice ass?”

Peter laughs, and it’s a genuine laugh complete with an infectious grin Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen on Peter’s face.

“I wasn’t asking if you knew why I wanted to have sex with you. I wanted to have sex with you because you’re a delectable little plaything who is oh so willing to learn.”

Stiles blushes and crosses his legs to hide the intense throb in his groin, his cock filling out in record time. Why is it so irresistible to hear Peter call him things like that?

They’re outside Peter’s apartment building now so he pulls into a parking space in the lot behind it, shuts off the engine and turns to face Stiles.

“A Nogitsune can ravage the sanity of even the strongest person, stripping bits of their psyche away until nothing is left but incomprehensible fragments that can’t ever be put back together again. Stiles, most people couldn’t survive what you did let alone come out of it with their sense of self intact.” 

“Believe me, it wreaked plenty of havoc with my sense of self,” Stiles mutters, fiddling with his hands in his lap. People don’t know how long it took to feel remotely normal again because Stiles doesn’t like to be a burden. Other than his dad, no one really knows what the ugly aftermath looked like because he kept quiet about it. It wasn’t like the Nogitsune left, and then everything was peachy fucking keen. Stiles didn’t trust his thoughts, his dreams, his experiences for months afterward. Sleep was no longer a comfort. Every time he closed his eyes, the fear gripped him, an unshakeable notion that the horrors would begin all over again if he allowed sleep to creep in. And that’s not even mentioning the nightmares. Those still trickle in from time to time. They’re further apart, but they’re not gone. 

“I know it did, but you recovered. I’m not saying you came out unscathed, but you’re still the plucky hero armed with his quiver of quips. You’re still  _ you, _ and you always will be. I’ve always noticed you because you refuse not to be noticed, but that? That was… a truly remarkable display of resilience. Only a fool wouldn’t pay attention to you after that.” 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Compliments make him uncomfortable at the best of times, and this? This is quite an astounding level of praise, especially from Peter. Peter fancies himself better than everyone around him, and he’s far from quiet about that superiority complex. In fact, he’s deafeningly loud about it. 

It’s also really touching to have someone acknowledge his fortitude. Scott and the others may have expressed their sympathy. They may have told him how happy they were to have him back, but… other than his father, no one has really told him how strong he was to survive it. Not the way Peter is telling him right now.

“You are so much better than all of them, and you don’t even know it, do you?” Peter asks, stroking his fingers along Stiles’ cheek.

“I don’t have super strength or psychic abilities or—”

“That’s precisely  _ why _ you’re better. You don’t need any of that. You’re extraordinary without it. You’re physically delicate, yes, but you’re not fragile. Fragility implies a certain weakness, a propensity to be broken easily. Your spirit is not broken easily. None of them would be anything special if they were stripped of their powers tomorrow, but you would still be the same daring, insightful Stiles. Hard not to wonder what kind of wolf you’d make. You’d be so cunning and powerful. I bet nothing could get in your way.” Peter’s eyes are foggy with longing, and it’s doing things to Stiles. Things he’d rather not think about.

“So you  _ don’t _ really think I’m fine just the way I am. Got it.”

“That’s not at all what I said. I’m just insatiably curious. Some would argue it’s my downfall. We’re the same that way.”

“Yeah, no fucking shit. Less of a downfall and more like a steep cliff drop into a thousand foot canyon. Nothing but bones shattered into dust when you reach the bottom.”

“I like you the way you are. I figured that was abundantly clear, given all of this,” Peter pushes a hand under Stiles’ shirt, and Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever stop shaking with pleasure at the first touch each time they do this, Peter’s hands always so warm and big and reassuring, “but I can try to make it clearer, if you like.”

“Yes, please. Draw me maps, pie charts, graphs. Crank out those stats. I want a full report on my desk by—” 

“Shut up,” Peter says, cutting off Stiles’ words with a kiss.

Just as the kiss starts to get  _ really _ good, Stiles’ phone dings, and he pulls away. Peter groans his displeasure.

“Sorry, but it might be about…” Stiles trails off as he reads his texts. “Holy shit, Malia and Isaac figured out how to shut down the dead pool. There was a giant computer set up behind the walls of that room in the lake house, and it was—” Stiles waves his hand and puts his phone back in his pocket. “It’s over. Let’s just leave it at that. And since Meredith knows where your money is, I guess it’s  _ really _ fucking over?!” Stiles beams at Peter and then waggles his eyebrows. “You up for celebrating?”

“You mean bending you over every surface in my apartment?”

“Fuck yes. That. Exactly that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Chrisaac isn't bothersome to you, but they won't really be around much beyond this mention. I just have a soft spot for them and wanted to imagine Chris brought Isaac back with him in this AU because that shit makes me happy, dammit. YA DONE ISAAC DIRTY, JEFF DAVIS. Gimme my poor abused sad boi in slouchy cardigans. Let him chill with Chris in France and raise goats in the countryside and make cheese and wine together.
> 
> You ever have friends who are _clearly_ fucking, but you pretend their secrecy is working while texting other people in the friend group "can you believe this shit?! they think we don't know?!" Lydia convo inspired by those moments. 
> 
> I hope you're all doing well. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. It's only Tuesday, and this week has already proven to be a piece of work so have some Steter lol.
> 
> Peter calls Stiles a good boy a lot in this, but like... praise kink is like daddy kink imo: can never be overstated. (Almost did daddy kink in this, actually. Could prob be persuaded to add it later if you want haha.)

They’re lying in bed naked, that perfect post-sex mood where they’re both sated and languid, and Stiles is smiling because Peter isn’t in a rush to get him to leave. He isn’t pretending like cuddling is a huge, intolerable concession either. He’s just running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, his arm a stable anchor around Stiles’ body. 

“Are you bisexual?” Stiles asks, his cheek pressed to Peter’s chest, his arm around his waist. He feels the rumble of Peter's laugh. 

“What brings on this line of questioning?”

“I was just thinking… you slept with whoever Malia’s mom is. You’re sleeping with me…” Stiles looks up at Peter with expectant eyes, but Peter makes a harrumph like the question irritates him.

“Do I seem like someone who aligns himself with labels of any kind?”

“Do you have to be so difficult all the time? I’m just trying to have a normal conversation with you. You know, the way people in relationships do?” 

“We’re not in a relationship, Stiles. We’ve been over this.” Peter closes his eyes, signifying that this subject is officially closed to further inquiry.

“Right… you pay my family’s hospital bills because my ass is just that perfect.”

Peter smiles, and Stiles can tell he’s suppressing another laugh.

“It really is a sublime ass. Made to be fucked.” Peter opens his eyes and looks down at him, tracing Stiles’ lips with his forefinger. Stiles darts his tongue out to lick across it, and when Peter makes a small, happy noise, Stiles sucks that finger into his mouth. “Trying to trade sexual favors for answers?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, pulling off to kiss Peter’s palm.

“I sleep with who I want to when I want to. Beyond that, I don’t really think about it too much. There are matters of far greater concern than that, especially when you live as long as we do.”

“Matters like revenge?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Did you sleep with a lot of people before…” Stiles stops because saying  _ “before the fire”  _ is treading on shaky ground, a thinly veiled trap underneath his feet that he doesn’t want to spring open. In the end, it doesn’t matter because uttering that single word _ —before— _ is obvious enough.

“Before Kate Argent tried to burn me alive? Yes, I did.” Peter spits the words out, and Stiles hopes the earth will open up and swallow him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Don’t start the self-flagellation loop. You indulge in that far too much, almost entirely over things that are not your fault.”

It’s an uncomfortably astute thing for Peter to say, but that’s one of the things Stiles likes most about him. He’s an observer; he’s good at reading people, and while it can be mortifying when he brings the hard truths to light, it’s comforting too. Stiles thinks he’s met his match. Usually he’s the one instilling that unsettling feeling in the people around him. He’s used to calling people on their shit, issuing snarky retorts that let them know he absolutely has them pegged. It’s sort of nice to be with someone who can deliver that right back, but it’s also made Stiles gain a new appreciation for how he might have really fucking grated on certain people in the past.

“I went through a period where I slept with a lot of married men,” Peter says, an uncharacteristically open confession, no riddles or vagueness to it. 

“Why?” Stiles asks, rolling off Peter’s chest and propping himself up on an elbow, head cradled in his hand.

“Because I could,” Peter responds with a cocky grin, and they both laugh.

“Not gonna lie, that’s kinda hot. How old were you?”

“Not much older than you. Twenty-two, twenty-three maybe.” 

Stiles hasn’t asked for Peter’s exact age because he has a feeling if he did, it would go something like it did when he asked how old Peter was during Derek’s relationship with Paige. For whatever reason, it doesn’t seem to be a detail Peter wants to give up, and Stiles suspects vanity has something to do with that. 

“Were you always this jacked or were you a skinny fucker like me back then?”

“Mmm, not  _ as _ skinny, but yes, I was considerably twinkier than I am now.”

Stiles grins not only at the image of a young, twinky Peter but also at the fact that Peter literally just described himself that way.

“Oh my ggoooddd, I wish I could have seen that.”

“I can dig up pictures, if you want. There are definitely some in the vault. Eyes closed or looking away, of course, but good enough. Hazard of being a wolf.” 

“Seriously?! You’d show me?!”

“Why are you so excited about this?” Peter looks askance at him, but it comes across less sour and more playful.

“Because you Hales are so fucking mysterious. Dragging even like… the tiniest details out of you guys is like pulling teeth. Pretty sure none of you are actually real people, you’re characters in a noir novel come to life. So yeah, I get excited about a little morsel here and there.”

“Ancient families trade in secrets. Your whole life starts to feel like lore, and so you treat it that way: precious and clandestine. It’s also a bit of a necessity when you age slower than humans do,” Peter explains. “Easier to stay somewhere a while if people aren’t asking a lot of questions. That said, certain people do take it too far, and it does get tedious. Like refusing to live in a normal apartment and dwelling in the burned out remains of an old house like the Boo Radley of Beacon Hills.” 

“We wouldn’t happen to be talking about someone whose name rhymes with Schmerek, would we?”

“Even that loft looks like an abandoned crypt. He should sell tickets at Halloween.”

“You know, people don’t give you enough credit for how funny you are. I guess the murderous rampage overshadowed your comedic skills. A damn shame.”

Peter regards Stiles for a second, squinting like he’s trying to gauge something, but what that is, Stiles can’t begin to guess.

“You make me laugh too,” is what Peter finally says, and Stiles’ heart soars.

“I knew it!” Stiles pokes Peter in the chest with a triumphant finger.

“See, this is why I’m very careful about encouraging you. You take one crumb and run with it. Please don’t be obnoxious now—”

Stiles kisses him to shut him up.

“I wish I could have slept with you back then,” Stiles muses, covering Peter’s neck with kisses. Peter has the most perfect neck, and Stiles can’t stop kissing and nipping at it, nuzzling against the skin and inhaling that heady, earthy aroma that always seems to waft off Peter.

“Not satisfied with the current me?”

“No, no, I just mean like… I wish I could have slept with  _ all _ versions of you. I’m greedy like that.” 

“Sit on my face,” Peter abruptly commands, and Stiles reels back with a frown. Peter has a way of doing that; without prelude, he’ll want something, and he just asks for it, plain and simple. He doesn’t stutter and blush his way through it like Stiles would. 

“Wh-what?”

“I’m sorry, were those instructions not explicit enough?” Peter grabs Stiles’ hips with both hands, digging his fingers in to make sure Stiles knows who’s in charge.

“No, they were definitely—um—okay, yeah. Okay, okay. Should I… um…”

“Just turn around and  _ sit, _ Stiles. Want my tongue inside you.”

Stiles’ eyelids flutter, his breath catching in his chest. There’s nothing quite like Peter’s smoky voice uttering filthy demands. It makes Stiles feel so very wanted in a way he never thought possible. He’s not the one people want. He’s the manic smart ass always chasing after people who are apathetic about him. 

When Stiles gets into position, his knees on either side of Peter’s head, he closes his eyes even though he’s thankfully facing away from Peter, pardoned from having a witness to the bloom of color on his cheeks and every wince of embarrassment flashing across his face. Of course, knowing Peter, he’d probably love to see that. He’d delight in telling Stiles in lurid detail how gorgeous he looks when he’s ashamed and turned on.

Stiles yelps as Peter wraps his hands around his thighs and pulls him backward, putting him exactly where he wants him, wasting no time licking across his hole, moving his hands to Stiles’ ass so he can pry his cheeks apart. They’ve done this a little bit, but never in this position and usually Stiles pushes Peter away after not much time at all. It’s not that he doesn’t like how it feels; it feel fucking  _ amazing, _ but it’s also so— 

“You know what I love about fucking you?”

“Mmm,” Stiles murmurs unintelligibly, earning an appreciative laugh from Peter. Stiles leans forward, his hands planted on the bed and bracketing Peter’s hips. 

“You always do what you’re told. Even when you’re nervous. Even when you think it’s so dirty and wrong that you shouldn’t want it. You’re far too adventurous to ever be boring in bed or out of it.” Peter draws circles around Stiles’ hole with the tip of his tongue and then switches to broad, flat strokes up and down. It’s sinfully good. Hot and wet and obscene, and Stiles can’t get enough of it. When they have sex, Peter is never predictable. Stiles never quite knows what’s coming next, and it kills him in the best fucking way. “You want to please me so much, and you love being taken apart as much as I love doing the taking.” 

Peter starts truly fucking him with his tongue, plunging in and out, and Stiles’ arms are shaking with the effort to hold him up. To distract himself, he fills his hands and mouth with Peter, sucking on the head of his cock and stroking the shaft, redoubling his efforts when he hears Peter moan behind him, Peter’s hips rising off the bed ever so slightly. It’s a lot at once—Peter’s tongue inside him, Peter’s cock in his mouth, Peter’s hands on his ass—and when Peter slaps the back of his thigh in just the way he likes, he chokes out a noise that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob. Stiles is pretty sure Peter makes it his mission to overwhelm him, to bombard him with as much sensation at once as he can, pushing until Stiles is a quivering, over-stimulated mess.

Stiles isn’t complaining.

He’s rocking back onto Peter’s face now—how does his body always do this shit without his permission?—but he couldn’t stop if he tried. Stiles sinks down onto Peter’s cock, taking nearly all of him into his mouth. He’s been getting better at that, paying close attention to every swipe of his tongue that makes Peter breathe just a little harder, figuring out what he likes best because Peter is right. Stiles wants to please him so fucking badly.

“Stop, stop,” Peter says, and Stiles whines but obeys, letting Peter’s cock slip out of his mouth. “Don’t worry. Just have a little something different in mind.”

Peter maneuvers Stiles onto his back (Peter can effortlessly move him around like he only weighs as much as a pillow, and it will never stop being sexy as fuck) and straddles his chest, Peter’s hard dick hovering inches from his lips. Stiles lifts his head to try to mouth at the tip, but Peter winds his fingers in Stiles’ hair and yanks him back.

“Do you remember what I said to you that night in the motel? When you promised to suck my cock?” Peter asks, tracing his fingers across Stiles’ lips.

_ “Will you let me pull out and come all over your pretty pink lips?” _

Stiles whimpers as he remembers what it felt like to hear Peter utter those words. Even then, before he knew what would happen between them, before he had any idea that night would lead to more, it had sent an undeniable thrill up his spine. He doesn’t know how Peter has managed to do that to him from the very moment this strange thing between them began, but even though being with Peter has a foreboding edge to it, a nagging voice in the back of Stiles’ brain whispering that nothing is ever what it seems, the passionate promise in his words and the way he touches Stiles… it always wins out in the end.

“I’m going to use your mouth, and you’re going to lie there and take it like a good boy, aren’t you?” Peter says, and Stiles shivers in anticipation.

“Yes,  _ please,”  _ Stiles begs.

Peter inches closer, hand steady in Stiles’ hair, pulling him forward a bit until Stiles finally feels the glorious pressure of Peter’s cock sliding between his lips, the heavy weight of it on his tongue. He’d moan if he could, but it’s sort of impossible to do when Peter is fucking his mouth, plunging in and out in a way that should feel invasive and rough, but it’s just… exactly what Stiles wants. It’s everything he didn’t know he needed, which, against all odds, has been the theme of his sex life with Peter.

It doesn’t last long enough. Stiles makes a bereft little huff when Peter pulls back; he wants more, wants Peter to stretch his mouth wide until he can’t take it anymore, wants him to abuse his throat until it's raw.

But then Peter is roughly fisting himself, the head of his cock nudging against Stiles’ lips with every stroke, and Stiles is transfixed. There’s an almost feral tilt to Peter right now, the beast uncaged in a way he doesn’t usually let Stiles see. There’s no restraint, no effort to seem unfettered and calm. He’s just chasing his orgasm as fast as he can, his hand a blur on his cock as he moans and looks down at Stiles like he fucking owns him. It feels more intimate than it should, and when Peter flashes his blue eyes as he comes on Stiles’ open mouth, Stiles can barely breathe. He thinks even the barest sound could disrupt the moment, a hammer cracking down the seam of a fragile thing. He can’t figure out why it feels so significant, but it just does. He looks into Peter’s eyes and sees something there, something he can’t pinpoint exactly, but he knows it’s real.

“Look at you, baby,” Peter breathes, his eyes far too soft for a creature who can kill with ease. He’s never called him that before, and it makes Stiles feel small and safe, held like a kitten who can still fit in the palm of someone’s hand. “Just… look at the pretty, pretty mess you make.” Peter swipes a finger through the come dripping down Stiles’ chin and pushes that finger into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles mindless sucks on it; he never thought the taste of Peter would be as satisfying as it is, but it’s just another item in a long line of proclivities he’s uncovered in Peter’s bed. “You were such a good boy for me, Stiles. You always are.”

Stiles licks the rest of the come from his lips, and Peter keeps watching him with rapt attention, petting his hair so tenderly, his eyes hazy and half-lidded.

Peter lies down on top of him, their chests pressed together, and gives him the sweetest kiss. It’s slow and deep, and Stiles thinks Peter must be tasting himself on Stiles’ tongue but he doesn’t seem to care. Peter just keeps on kissing him until Stiles is rutting against him desperately, his heavy cock begging to be touched.

Peter mouths at his jaw and his ear. His fingers are in Stiles’ hair, but he’s not tugging on it right now. He’s just stroking it softly, and Stiles is basking in how devout every touch feels, quiet and worshipful. Like Stiles is a cherished thing Peter wants to care for and keep forever. 

“My good boy,” Peter murmurs, dotting his neck with kisses. “You’re mine, aren’t you? I want you,  _ all _ of you. No one else is allowed to touch you. I’d kill anyone who tried; you know that? You belong to me,” Peter says with a domineering growl, and Stiles feels owned and loved and… oh no. 

Ohnonononofuckno. 

That word should never be entering his mind in the same sentence as Peter Hale. In a flash, none of this is soothing anymore. There’s a jarring shift in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, like someone has slashed across the inside of him with a searing hot knife, a rush of apprehension that makes Stiles dizzy, the skin of his chest too tight around his ribs. He feels like he’s bleeding out on the bed.

Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s crawled out from under Peter and headed toward the bathroom until he hears Peter call his name, a distorted, muffled sound like he’s hearing it from across an endless field. 

Stiles grips the edge of the bathroom sink and tries to breathe, counting to three every time he inhales, exhaling even slower. He lifts his head to look at his reflection in the mirror, jerking back when he sees Peter standing behind him. He tries to open his mouth to tell Peter to go, but his tongue won’t cooperate.

Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t crowd him. It’s nice. It’s a reassurance delivered with respectful distance, letting Stiles know he’s there but that he doesn’t want to make it worse by smothering him. 

That’s sort of the problem though. 

It’s all of these little moments that fluster Stiles and make him feel like he’s on the precipice of feeling far too much to keep this up. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore, if Peter does these things to keep him satisfied, to keep him coming back to bed, or if it’s more. 

“Stiles? Did I do something you didn’t want—” 

“No, no, it was good. It’s always good,” Stiles responds, looking at Peter through the mirror. He doesn’t want to turn around. Somehow, this illusion of a buffer between them is all that’s holding him together right now. “You know, you keep saying this is just… whatever it is, and I—I don’t think I can... I don’t  _ feel _ that way anymore, and I know you didn’t want that so I should—I should go.” Stiles gives a jerky little nod, squeezing the sink for courage before letting go and turning around to face Peter. “So I’m gonna go. I’m gonna just make this easier for both of us and do that.”

“Wait,” Peter says, placing a hand on Stiles’ chest, and Stiles hates how calm Peter sounds. Inside Stiles is a brewing storm of chaos, lightning and thunder and rainstorms that are going to flood him from the inside out, trees felled from untamed winds whipping through the sky, and Peter is just fine. 

“No, I  _ really _ don’t wanna talk about this. I don’t need to hear you say for the hundredth time that we’re not in a relationship and I knew what I signed up for, okay? I can’t do that again.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure that Peter wasn’t spot on about what he said that first night in his apartment. Maybe Stiles is too young and stupid. Maybe he’s confusing one thing for another, but he  _ knows _ himself. He always has. He knows how Peter makes him feel, and he’s pretty damn sure Peter feels the same way on some level. Sure, it’s a warped Peter Hale version of feelings, but it’s there and it’s getting more glaring every time they sleep together. Maybe he should try to fight for that, to crack open Peter’s armor and make him  _ say _ it, but he doesn’t feel like launching into battle right now. It’s an inevitable loss, and it’ll just crush Stiles’ spirit even more to hear Peter deny his feelings. He feels very, very small right now, but it’s far from the safety he felt earlier. He feels like a tiny, insignificant insect waiting to be ground to dust underneath the boot of the next thoughtless person who walks by.

“Stiles, I don’t want you to go. What do you want—” Peter stops, taking a breath and regrouping before he finishes that sentence. “What do you need from me? Take your time. You don’t have to answer right away.”

Stiles frowns because it feels like a trick question. It’s not as simple as asking for what he wants in the short term. If it were, Peter wouldn’t have told him to take his time. It’s a deeper, broader question. Maybe Stiles should heed Peter’s suggestion and mull it over, but in the end, he decides to trust his instincts, open his mouth and see what comes out.

_ First thought, best thought. _

“I want…” Stiles chews his bottom lip and gazes up at Peter. He must look nervous because Peter gives a slow, patient nod. “I want you to say I’m not just a body to fuck. I want you to admit that you don’t want anyone else, that you couldn’t just swap me out for someone new and be happy. I need to hear how you really feel about me, none of this back and forth shit. No more ‘I’ve never claimed not to care about you’ followed by ‘oh hey, just a reminder we’re not in a relationship, Stiles.’ No more paying my hospital bills if you don’t really want to be with me. You’re sending deliberately mixed messages, and I can’t take it anymore. Admit something without it being veiled behind a bunch of noncommittal code or I am  _ done. _ I thought I could do this whole… in limbo, label-less shit, but I  _ can’t.”  _

Peter doesn’t say anything at first, but even though Stiles is as anxious as a squirrel on a kilo of cocaine, he reminds himself that this is just Peter’s way. He doesn’t speak in impulsive babbles like Stiles. He chooses his words carefully, spinning them through the wily wringer of his mind before letting them slide off his tongue. 

“Everyone gives off chemosignals, but some people are saturated in them, the scents dripping off like potent perfume. You’re like that, Stiles. You’re not one to hide what you’re thinking and feeling. You wear everything on your sleeve, and although it’s a vulnerability I don’t understand or recommend, the kind of vulnerability that can get someone killed, it’s… beautifully raw and pure too. And it also means I noticed when you were attracted to me before even you did. When I first smelled it, I have no doubt you were still burying it deep down so you wouldn’t have to contend with it.” 

“Is there a point to this or are you just getting lost in self-congratulation?” Stiles crosses his arms and leans back against the sink. Peter just smiles like Stiles is a particularly captivating subject he’s been watching carefully for months. It’s really fucking annoying, but he suspects that, from Peter, there’s a twisted endearment wrapped inside it. 

“When I had the fortune of getting you all to myself in that motel, we were bored and you were trying my patience. But you were  _ so _ beautiful and untouched so I decided to try my luck, armed with the knowledge that you only needed a carefully timed push. You were ripe and ready for me.” Peter steps forward and strokes Stiles’ cheek. The sexy bastard probably could have made all the Hale fortune back if he decided to be a phone sex operator. That come-hither voice never fails to make Stiles’ knees quake, and while he’s trying to stand his ground and hold Peter accountable, to get what he wants out of this conversation and  _ not _ get distracted… his dick has other plans. Peter’s eyes dip down to take note. “And then, if you’ll recall, I left it up to you, and you  _ chose _ me.” 

“I don’t need a recap of events, Peter. I was  _ there. _ I know all this.”

“Patience, baby,” Peter says, and Stiles can tell from the way he smiles that he knows what power that word has over Stiles. “Did I, at certain points, imagine how you might be useful to me in other ways? Ways you would not approve of? Yes. But ultimately I decided that I would rather not do anything that would lead to you never speaking to me again.” 

“Because you…?” Stiles urges him on with a wave of his hand. Peter is not getting out of this without a blatant confession. Preferably notarized and laminated for Stiles to hang up on his wall.

“Because I like you better than anyone else on this insufferable planet, Stiles. No, I couldn’t just swap you out for someone else and be happy. I told you once before, I  _ could _ find a new toy, but I’m inordinately fond of this one. That’s still true. Yes, I have had some…  _ reluctance _ about submitting to that. As you are more than aware, there are about a hundred complications at play here, and I’m not exactly the conventional relationship type. But I want you to stay, and I want to figure out how we can make that happen. I’m willing to try if you are. Is that good enough?” 

“From you? Yeah… yeah, that’s good enough.” It’s actually way more than he was expecting. Stiles smiles and nuzzles into the hand on his cheek. Hearing Peter say he prefers Stiles to everyone else makes him feel warm and gooey, and maybe it shouldn’t feel like enough. Maybe he should want more of a plan, a concrete idea of what the future holds for them, but— “Wait, what ways did you think I’d be useful?” Stiles snaps out of the cozy cocoon that was beginning to envelop him. 

“Nothing gets by you… How I both love and hate that,” Peter says with a shake of his head before adding, “Gaining your trust enough for you to… facilitate me being in a certain advantageous position at a certain predetermined time so I could accomplish something.” 

“Could you be any more vague?! What  _ something _ did you hypothetically want to accomplish?” Stiles takes a step back and swats Peter’s hand away from his cheek. “When? Where? What? How?” 

“When did you last hear from Scott?” Peter asks with a resigned sigh, like he’s now realizing he has to accept that the night is headed toward a different trajectory than he’d like, one he was hoping to avoid. 

“I don’t know… a few hours ago.” Stiles thinks back to the last text he got from Scott. “He was on a date with Kira. Why?” 

“You should check on him again,” Peter says without any further elaboration. 

“Peter, what did you do?” Stiles asks, his voice vibrating with fury because he knows there’s no way he’s going to like the answer to that question. Peter just keeps standing there, his eyes fixed on Stiles. Stiles can’t tell if that’s a flicker of regret he just saw or if he imagined it. It’s gone before he can really look hard enough to decide. “What did you do?!”

“Okay, I’m going to tell you something, and you are  _ really _ not going to like it.” Peter grimaces like he’s bracing himself for what’s going to happen next. “I’m going to need you to remember everything I just told you about how I feel. And  _ also _ remember that people make mistakes. Mistakes they made before they got really heavily involved with you. Mistakes they are completely willing to help fix, if you’ll let them. Maybe also remember that progress isn’t a straight line? And that you really, really like me and think I’m funny and pretty and exceptionally talented in bed?”

“What… did… you… do?” Stiles says, and Peter looks up at the ceiling as though some ancient god will pardon him for what he’s about to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a little angst wrench thrown into the almost happiness of these two, huh? I'm giving you another chapter Thursday because I don't want to leave you in suspense for too long. That's just cruel! 
> 
> As always, I love hearing from you and hope you are all doing well!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be two chapters. But I'm so damn nervous about how you're going to feel about some of these events, so I figured making this one giant chapter so you could get to certain scenes faster would soften the blow(s)? Be gentle with me because I am but a fragile author bahaha. Will save the rest of my rambling for the end notes.

“Are we  _ really _ bringing him? Even though this is 100% his fault?!” Stiles points at Peter but doesn’t look at him. Stiles is aware of the cruel irony of being aghast at everyone for throwing a modicum of trust in Peter’s direction when he’s been doing the same for months, but they don’t know that.

“100% is a bit of a misleading figure, Stiles. I merely led the homicidal horse to water. Kate was going after Scott no matter what. I only shaped her methods of attack,” Peter replies, but Stiles ignores him. As if Stiles’ feelings weren’t enough of a jumbled mess before, now he has to deal with the fact that the morally dubious guy he’s been sleeping with told Kate Argent how to turn Scott into a Berserker with the intent of taking Scott’s power when the moment is right. It doesn’t matter if he abandoned that plan, the damage is still done. After all this time, Peter’s still devoted to the pointless quest for the alpha power he once had. It’s so tiresome. It’s a vain, meaningless desire that disgusts Stiles. It’s  _ dull. _ It’s old hat villainy that makes Stiles think every glimmer of good he saw in Peter was a lie. Stiles feels like a helpless young moron who fell for a pretty face and a nice dick, and he  _ hates _ being made to feel like a helpless moron. Only Stiles is allowed to make Stiles feel like a helpless moron. 

“We're bringing everyone we can, Stiles,” Derek says, an apologetic note to his voice. “If we’re going to get past the Berserkers and find Kate, we need everyone’s help. Believe me, I don’t trust him either, but who knows what it’s going to take to restrain Scott and bring him back to himself. He’s an alpha who was turned into a Berserker. He’s probably stronger than ever.” 

“And, considering Scott and Kira were taken the night before a full moon, we should probably get going,” Peter says. Stiles can feel Peter’s eyes on him, but he still doesn’t turn his way.

_ Good. Let him look. Let him wonder what the fuck I’m thinking for once. _

“A werewolf can't steal a true alpha's power. But, a Nagual jaguar with the power of Tezcatlipoca behind her? Maybe she can,” Peter says.

“You mean steal it for  _ you?”  _ Stiles bitterly accuses. Although Peter didn’t finish explaining his nefarious plan (ever the slippery villain who only reveals what’s behind a few doors of the funhouse), Stiles is guessing it went something like this: Scott dies, Liam becomes the alpha, Peter kills him and becomes the new alpha.

“So, if everyone is sufficiently freaked out, I say we get going,” Peter continues as though he didn’t hear Stiles, clapping his hands once like the matter is settled. Stiles wants to throttle him. How the fuck is Peter acting like he’s in charge when he’s the reason they have to rescue Scott at all.

“All right. Fine.” Stiles lets out a shaky breath and pulls Malia aside. “I need to be back there with Derek and Liam. I've got the most experience dealing with out-of-control teen wolves. You gonna be okay riding with Peter?”

“He  _ is _ my father. Maybe we could do some bonding,” Malia says without a hint of nerves. Sometimes Stiles sees the family resemblance, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. Malia has that same uncanny gift for staying composed under pressure, and, just like Peter, she usually doesn’t like to be told what to do. 

“No. No bonding. Play the radio. Play it  _ loud.”  _ Stiles doesn’t know if Peter has any more tricks up his sleeve, but he’s not discounting the possibility of any further manipulative surprises. He worries about Malia (who doesn’t he worry about it? Stiles should get an honorary degree in worrying about everyone), but he also knows she can take care of herself.

“What about you? Are you gonna be okay?” she asks, staring at Stiles with an intensity that reminds him once again that she is indeed a Hale.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’ve dealt with—”

“I meant,” Malia looks around to see if anyone is watching them and then lowers her voice, “about Peter. You smell like him a lot, Stiles. It’s hard not to notice. I don't know exactly what’s going on, but I can fill in the blanks.”

“Oh… fuck… Malia, I’m sorry.” Stiles runs a tired hand down his face. Could his life be any more of a dysfunctional nightmare?! Does  _ everyone _ know? They probably do. When your friend group is mostly comprised of werewolves with preternatural senses, it’s hard to keep secrets. “Look, I’m an idiot. I just—” 

“Dude, I don’t care. You can fuck whoever you want. I do,” Malia says with a shrug, and Stiles smiles a little. Sometimes her blunt, brash approach to life is a real comfort. “Just don’t trust him. Like, ever.”

“Yeah… yeah, I know. Like I said, I’m an idiot.” Stiles finally lets his eyes land on Peter, and Peter gives him a small, sad smile. Stiles supposes it’s the Peter version of an apology, but it’s not good enough.

  
  


***

  
  


“You want to kill me, Chris?” Although Stiles can’t see her, he can hear the smirk in Kate’s voice, the confidence of a killer who is used to feeling invincible. 

After Peter helped hold Scott down, he scampered off after Kate. It was Peter’s idea to use Liam’s connection to Scott to bring him back to himself.

_ “The bond between beta and alpha is unlike anything else. If anyone is going to draw Scott out, it’s Liam.”  _

Stiles had been skeptical of that and even a little bit miffed at the thought of someone Scott has only known for a few months being bonded to him like that, but in the end, Peter was right. It worked. Stiles is pretty sure Peter thought that, in the middle of the kerfuffle, no one would notice him slithering off, but Stiles did. They’re hiding behind a nook in the cave right now, and Stiles doesn’t know exactly what Peter’s planning, but he’s fairly certain it involves slashing Kate’s throat and doing it right this time.

Peter glowers and mouths  _ “go away”  _ at Stiles, but Stiles just glowers right back and mouths  _ “fuck you.” _

“No… but I don't want to save you anymore, either. I don't know that you're worth saving,” Chris responds, and Stiles is heartsick for him. Chris has been faced with far too many impossible choices like this.

“Just like when we were kids… always trying to make me the bad guy,” Kate says. Stiles tries to move closer, but Peter puts an arm out to stop him. “You can't see them clearly anymore, can you? Scott's not your little hero. None of them are. Not when they killed Allison.”

“She died saving her friends. Who would you die for?” There’s a stoic kind of acrimony in Chris’ words, a man who is angry but also has to just keep going, going no matter what life throws his way. A survivor.

“You're not gonna kill me, and you're not gonna catch me. Not you, not Peter… and not the Calaveras,” Kate volleys back. Stiles has seen how fast yellow wolfsbane can work. He knows she has to be suffering a lot at this point, but somehow her ego is still intact. 

In a flash, Peter is running around the bend and toward Kate and Chris, leaving a baffled Stiles standing in the shadows. 

“You’re right; he won’t. But I, on the other hand, have no qualms about finishing what I started,” Peter threatens, and Stiles bolts toward the sound of his voice.

“Peter, don’t!” Stiles cries out hoarsely, the words squelched underneath the sickly sounds of claws tearing into flesh. Peter slashes her throat until it’s a raw, bloody strip barely attached to the back of her neck, hanging like the open mouth of a puppet. He wraps his hands around her head and yanks upward with a gruesome twist, the remaining bone and skin snapping clean off. Stiles bends over and dry heaves. He should be used to these unseemly sights by now, but he doesn’t think he ever will be. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s dangerous to adapt to heinous things. 

Stiles looks at Chris, whose face is contorted in a blend of emotions Stiles can only begin to guess at, a sea of things he imagines Chris will be parsing for a long time after this. 

When Stiles’ eyes shift to Peter’s, there’s a savagery in those electric blue irises, and it’s not like Stiles hasn’t seen it before. He knows what Peter can do. He’s been up close and personal with it before, but it’s different now. Everything is different because of what they’ve been doing behind closed doors for months, and Stiles realizes Chris isn’t the only one who’s going to need a lot of time to process what happened in this cave tonight.

Stiles turns around and walks toward the moonlight shining through the entrance. His legs don’t really feel like his own. They’re unsteady, robotic things being driven by neurons firing from his brain to signal the need for movement. It’s automatic. Trance-like. He feels a bit like he’s floating above his body, and it’s strange to think that the last time he felt that way, it was also because of Peter. But it wasn’t like this. It was freeing and intimate and safe. This is… chaotic, unmapped territory that Stiles is going to have to deal with, and he’s back to wishing everything would slow down for once so he could sit and  _ think.  _

“Stiles?” He knows it’s Peter’s voice, but it sounds tinny and far-away. 

Stiles doesn’t turn around. He just keeps walking until he’s out in the night air. He inhales a deep lungful, grateful for the small consistencies in this world. Earth, sky, air, stars. Everyone is scattered throughout, clumps of his friends standing in the sandy desert, checking each other’s injuries and blissfully unaware of what just happened. Chris walks past Stiles; he glances over his shoulder, but his eyes are cloudy and unfocused. Stiles expects him to say something to Peter, but he’s in a daze. Is it shock? Is he just too tired to feel anything yet? Stiles doesn’t really want to see what happens when he snaps out of it.

Chris keeps walking to join the others. They’ll know soon, and everything that happens next is going to be awkward at best.

“Stiles, I understand you probably—” Peter is next to him now, and Stiles can feel his gaze, he can  _ always _ feel his gaze. It’s never been more unbearable than it is now. 

“You almost killed Brunski, you were going to kill my best friend, and now you’ve killed Kate? What’s next, Peter?! Because I’m guessing there’s no end to it, is there? Just like there’s no end to any of this,” Stiles yells, waving toward his friends in the distance, completely ignoring their puzzled faces. He doesn’t particularly give a shit who hears him. It’s too late for discretion anyway. The jig is most definitely up. “Is murder the only way you know how to solve problems?” 

“You have to admit, it  _ is _ the most permanent solution available.” Peter holds out his hands in surrender.

“Are you—now is not the time to make jokes, Peter!” 

“She wouldn’t have stopped until she ruined as many lives as possible. You saw everything she’s done along the way. She couldn’t be controlled, and you know it. Chris said as much; you heard him. This was the only way to deal with her, and yes, my vendetta may be laced alongside that, but you know I’m right,” Peter says, and Stiles despises how measured and condescending his tone is. He wants Peter to be as hysterical as he is right now. He wants to see that he’s fucking  _ bothered _ by what he just did. 

“Some people would say the same about you, Peter.” Stiles turns to face him, and Peter has the audacity to look insulted. 

“I have control. I make choices. Calculated maneuvers. This isn’t the start of a new homicidal rampage. I merely closed a loop that was always meant to be closed by me. Kate has been killing in a frenzy like a rabid dog, and if I let her slink away when Argent was too sentimental to take her down, it would have only been a matter of time before she came around to cause you and everyone else more murderous grief. She was mayhem personified. I  _ waited _ to see if Chris would handle it, but he didn’t. You saw that.” Peter grips Stiles by the shoulders, and Stiles is surprised to see his eyes soften into something repentant and warm. It’s hard to reconcile that with what Stiles just saw him do, but then again, maybe that’s just what life with werewolves is like. He’s weathered the moody storms of Scott, Liam, and Malia. He knows the heady oscillation of extremes. He’s seen it all. “Baby, I’m sorry. I meant what I said when I told you I didn’t ever want to do anything that would make you stop speaking to me. You once forgave my daughter for nearly ripping you to shreds on the full moon. You’ve called her shifting from ‘I’d leave you all to die’ to ‘well, I’d leave the rest of you but not Stiles’ as progress. It wasn’t really that long ago that the Argents tied you up and bruised you in their basement, but I don’t see you lording that over Chris’ head. Can you not extend the same courtesy to me?” 

“I’ll think about it… but I need some time.” 

“That’s fair.” Peter drops his hands from Stiles’ shoulders and nods, no irritation in his eyes, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Sometimes it almost scares me more when you’re being reasonable.”

“Why did he just call you  _ baby?” _ Scott shouts, walking over to them, and even through the stress of everything, Stiles smirks at Peter. 

“Care to explain that, Peter?” Stiles crosses his arms and waits. He’s extremely curious to see how Peter handles this, and in this very delicate moment, his response means quite a lot. It could shape what Stiles does next. 

“Because we’ve been sleeping together for months,” Peter says, his eyes flitting over to Scott and then back to Stiles. “And because I’ve grown to like him in a rather hazardous way. The kind where I’d forget about self-preservation and defend him at great risk to myself. The kind where I’d kill anyone that ever tried to hurt him for the rest of his natural born life. The kind where he is, without a doubt,  _ mine.” _

Stiles thinks about yesterday, when he stood in Peter’s bathroom and thought of a word that he shouldn’t. A word that carries too much weight and is just another unwieldy thing to add to the immense mess that is their relationship. It’s treacherous for him to be thinking about that word again, but he looks into Peter’s eyes and knows that what Peter is saying is pretty damn close to it.

“I should not find that as hot as I do,” Stiles says with a shake of his head.

“No, you  _ really _ shouldn’t!” Scott is incredulous, and Stiles can’t blame him. But still, he can only put out one grease fire at a time.

“Scott, I know we have a whole lot of shit to talk about, but can you just let me have one minute with Peter? Please? Just one minute, I promise.”

Scott flashes threatening red eyes in Peter’s direction, but he nods.

“I’ll be here. Right here,” Scott says, staring pointedly at Peter.

“Yes, the dramatic implications are quite clear, Scott. Thank you,” Peter chimes in with a mocking smile. 

Stiles waits for Scott to retreat a bit, and then he turns back to Peter.

“Look… everything between us was already pretty fucking complicated, but it’s kicked up several notches in the last fourty-eight hours. You were plotting to kill my best friend.” Stiles thinks he’s repeating it for his own benefit, a needful reminder of who Peter really is, an antidote to shove toward all the tender feelings Peter stirs in him. He doesn’t want to give into all that without being practical and really thinking this through. He’s rash when he needs to be—impulsivity isn’t always a bad thing when the lives of people you love are at stake—but he’s careful too. It’s why he makes the plans, not Scott. 

“But I didn’t,” Peter gently reminds him, combing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “And I won’t. I would never hurt you or your friends or your family. I know a promise from me probably doesn’t mean much, given my history, but you  _ have _ to know you mean a great deal to me. You’re too smart not to notice that.”

Stiles nods, shunning the impulse to lean into Peter’s hand, to curl up against Peter’s chest and soak up all his warmth.

“I do know that. I’m just… not sure if it’s enough right now. I feel like this,” Stiles gestures between the two of them, “kind of always had an expiration date. We’re really different people, Peter. And we’re not going to be able to keep being an ‘us’ without a whole lot of hard conversations.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“You know I don’t like to promise any certainty when it comes to things that are, by nature, uncertain, but I do know that I want us to be…” Peter trails off, his eyes shifting to the ground as he rubs the back of his neck.

“What was it you once said to me? If you can’t even say it, you’re probably not ready for it?” Stiles crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and waits. 

“I want us to be together. I may still be a tad bit morally bankrupt, but—” 

“A tad?!” Stiles exclaims, and Peter purses his lips. “Go on.”

“But I want… I want to compromise. For you. I want to factor you in. It’s a new feeling for me, but it’s there and it’s real. This much I can tell you is true.” 

“You know you should want to be good for yourself too, not just me,” Stiles points out. Peter’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. “We have a lot to talk about, but I think I have to go subdue the alpha who’s about to blow a gasket.”

Stiles glances over at Scott, who is hunched into a defensive stance, at the ready to attack should he need to, his eyes fixed on Peter.

“You sure you want to do that right now? I can be your procrastination excuse. You could ride back with me and save the confrontation for another day,” Peter suggests, and even though there’s a lot of conflict to resolve with Peter, that does sound like a welcome reprieve from fending off Scott. 

“That’s actually really tempting, but no… I think I should just get it over with.”

“Okay, go appease Werewolf Mr. Rogers,” Peter says. “We’ll talk later.”

Stiles nods and starts to walk away, but suddenly, he pivots back.

“Peter… when I say I need time to process and think about all this shit, I just want you to know I’m not doing that like… stereotypical male thing where guys  _ say _ they need time but really they’re just ghosting someone, you know? I just genuinely, like,  _ need _ a fucking minute to breathe and think. I  _ will _ get back to you. Okay?” It’s not as though everything Stiles felt for Peter before this rollercoaster of the last two days has evaporated. It’s all still there, and it’s going to be considered alongside the less desirable things. Hell, maybe he’ll turn that messy dry erase board into a Peter Hale Pro and Con List.

“Thank you for telling me that. It’s good to hear.” Peter smiles, and it’s that genuine, sweet smile Stiles has only seen once before, with Peter in his car laughing and telling him why Stiles intrigues him, why he’s been interested in him for longer than Stiles even knew. 

It makes Stiles want to do something stupid, and so he does. He swiftly walks back to Peter, and, before he can think better of it, he holds Peter’s face between his hands and kisses him. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s a promise or a goodbye. There’s a bone-shaking growl from behind them, and Stiles flinches.

“That was definitely Scott,” Stiles says as he pulls away. “I think you better get in your car and get the hell out of here.”

“Way ahead of you. There is nothing I can’t outrun. Running runs in the family.”

  
  


***

  
  


“I don’t understand how you didn’t notice,” Malia says, leaning back in her seat, propping one booted foot against the window. She’s sitting behind Kira (who is in the driver’s seat wearing a deer in the headlights expression, clearly wishing she was literally anywhere but here), and Stiles is sitting behind Scott. “Stiles reeks of him all the time. And he was always leaving in the middle of our hangouts to ‘get an early night.’ No one under the age of thirty says that, especially not Stiles.”

Stiles stifles a laugh. He’s grateful for a little levity to dispel the tension. Honestly, considering all the upheaval of the past couple of years, Stiles isn’t even sure this is the most awkward car ride he’s shared with Scott, but it’s definitely going to earn a slot in the top three.

“Scott, can we just—” Stiles leans forward, placing a hand on the passenger seat and craning his neck around, trying to force Scott to look at him.

“No.” Scott stares resolutely forward.

“Well, here’s the thing. Maybe you don’t want to talk, but I do and you can’t stop me. So I’m gonna talk. Do you remember when I told you it was okay to want something just for yourself? When you were worried that caring about lacrosse made you selfish?” Scott doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t tell Stiles to stop talking so Stiles keeps going. “I’ve been… lonelier than I let myself realize.” Stiles’ cheeks go hot, wishing he didn’t have an audience for this conversation, but he figures he lost the right to demand easier circumstances when he decided to keep this from everyone. “I have  _ great _ friends, and I don’t want to sound like I don’t appreciate everyone in this car because I really, really do. But you had Allison and now you have Kira and lacrosse and  _ both _ of your parents, even if things are still kind of rocky with your dad. I just feel a little left out sometimes, and Peter… Peter was—he  _ is _ —something that is just mine. I don’t feel good about the fact that I kept it from you. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, not like this, and I’m  _ really _ sorry. But sometimes I think… keeping it secret and not having to deal with anyone tainting it was like a way to keep this special, private, untouched thing all to myself. Something just for me.”

Scott is looking out the window, and it’s agonizingly quiet in the car. Forget about hearing a pin drop; you could hear a snowflake hitting the ground. Stiles leans back in his seat with a sigh, but then Scott finally speaks.

“Or maybe you liked keeping it a secret because you knew everyone would judge you for it, and you knew they’d be  _ right.” _

“Yeah… yeah, that’s definitely a factor,” Stiles admits. “I know that, Scott. Trust me, I know Peter is Peter.”

“Then why?!” Scott whips around in his seat, and Stiles tries not to shrink under his glare. Scott’s  _ I’m disappointed in you  _ face is almost as effective as his father’s, but Stiles is also as defiant as they come. “If you were lonely, I get that. But Peter?! Did it have to be him?”

“I didn’t plan it! It happened when my car broke down in Mexico.”

“Ooooohhhh, wow, okay. Everything is clicking into place now. Of  _ course _ it was that night!” Malia claps her hands together and laughs, but when the car goes silent, she clears her throat and shoots Stiles a sympathy grimace.

“How long is this drive again?” Kira asks, her voice high pitched with nerves. Stiles feels like he owes her a big fancy present for sitting through this.

“So you were having sex with  _ Peter _ while we were looking for Derek?!” Scott smacks the dash with one hand, and Stiles jerks back in his seat. How does this conversation just keep getting worse and how can he turn it around? “He was going to kill me, Stiles.”

“But he didn’t!” Stiles points out, and he hates that he’s using the defense Peter tossed his way less than an hour ago, a defense he swiftly shot down, but, at this point, he’s grasping at anything he can. 

“Does it really matter since he  _ wanted _ to?! I’m kind of focused on that right now, Stiles.” 

“I mean, yeah, it  _ does _ matter. Punishing something for thinking about doing something… that’s like a thought crime, 1984 style.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s fine when the thought is  _ murder.” _

“Hey, I’ve wanted to kill Coach some days. A thought is a thought. An action is an action. Totally different things.”

“Not when it comes to Peter Hale. Kate isn’t the first person he’s killed, Stiles. His thoughts turn into action all the time.”

“Malia wanted to rip me apart on the full moon. She said she’d leave Kira and Lydia for dead in the desert,” Stiles counters, silently thanking all the gods that Peter’s smug ass isn’t around to hear this. “Those were her thoughts, but she didn’t act on them! Progress! People can change. Fuck, Liam nearly killed me on the way  _ here.” _ Stiles isn’t sure if he’s saying this to convince Scott or to convince himself, but the more he thinks about it, the more the morality lines are starting to blur. Yes, Peter has been a real slimy, mustache-twirling motherfucker, but in terms of weighing one transgression against another? Nearly everyone he knows in the supernatural world has done something that people outside of this life would find reprehensible. Maybe Stiles is being misguided and just wants to focus on the possibility of a better Peter, but isn’t that what Scott’s optimistic philosophy is about? They let Deucalion go, giving him a chance to change. Is this really any different? Until he sees what Peter does next, it’s hard to say.

“He’s right. I mean… I don’t know if  _ Peter _ can—” Stiles elbows Malia with a glare, and she tries to salvage that sentence, “but uh… you never know. Stranger things have happened. And if… if Stiles thinks he can, maybe we should listen to him. He’s usually right about people.”

Malia smiles at Stiles, and he’s so glad to know her. They trust each other immensely, and it’s kind of crazy how quickly that happened, given everything. Then again, it’s not any crazier than what’s happening between him and Peter. Arguably, nothing is crazier than that.

“He’s not right about this,” Scott mutters, and Stiles knows there’s nothing else to say. 

Maybe Scott will want to listen later, but right now? All Stiles is going to get is a brick wall that’s impossible to smash through.

Maybe that’s what he deserves anyway.

***

“Dad, you can’t arrest him. What are you going to say? That someone we buried was actually alive and then became a werejaguar and Peter killed her? Besides, it happened in Mexico. Pretty sure we have zero jurisdiction, and I’m also pretty sure you know that’s true,” Stiles reminds him. It’s clear that his dad is steeped in residual ire from Peter’s inadvertent role in the dead pool.

“Why are you so keen to defend him?” Stiles’ father leans back against his desk, and a cold sweat runs down Stiles’ spine. He really, really hopes the shrewd, skeptical face his dad is making isn’t because he’s put two and two together. Trials and tribulations of having a cop for a dad: they eventually figure things out. 

“Because…” Stiles looks over at Scott, and all the color drains from his best friend’s face. The rest of the ride home might have been as cringe-worthy as Stiles imagines it is for people to watch him play lacrosse, but Scott still came here with him. That’s something, at least. Stiles is confident that Scott just needs time to cool his hot-headed wolfy self down and adjust to the reality of Stiles and Peter. Their friendship has survived Scott threatening to rip him apart on his first full moon, Stiles being possessed by an ancient evil spirit, and Stiles being pathetically single while Scott waxed poetic about Allison’s hair and her smile and every stupid lovesick text exchange. He’s pretty sure they can endure this.

“Stiles, don’t,” Scott begs, shaking his head, but Stiles is officially done lying. What’s the point in staggering the reveals? Why not just detonate all the landmines under his feet all at once, explode the entire fault-lined ground and rebuild his relationships from the rubble?

“Because we’re together… ish.” 

Sheriff Stilinski cocks his head in disbelief, his mouth slightly open like he wants to speak but can’t decide what to say. Stiles guesses it’s not for lack of options. It’s more like his dad can’t decide which shocked and dismayed reaction to go with. 

“Um… I think I’ll give you guys a minute,” Scott says, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Thank you, Scott. I think that’s for the best,” Stiles’ father says, his piercing gaze trained on his son. Scott leaves the office, and Stiles thrusts his hands into his pockets. He hasn’t felt this worried since he took on the supremely arduous task of explaining the hidden supernatural world to his dad, and even then, it doesn’t really compare to this. Stiles would rather shove sharpened pencils into his ears than talk about sex with his dad, and the fact that it’s about Peter Hale? It’s like sprinkling broken glass on top of the shit sundae. 

“You want to tell me what you mean by that?” his dad asks, rubbing his forehead like he’s in pain just from having to ask such a question. “And  _ please _ tell me you do not mean what I  _ think _ you do.” 

“We’ve been… seeing each other for a little while now. You know, like… yeah, it’s what you think it is,” Stiles confesses with a heavy sigh. 

“Well, that’s an easy call. You’re forbidden from ever seeing him again. End of discussion.” The sheriff turns around, busying himself with papers on his desk, and Stiles makes an irritated huff. 

“What? Since when am I not allowed to make my own decisions about who I—” 

“Since you decided to get in bed with a murderer who’s… how old is he anyway?!” Stiles’ father looks over his shoulder, his eyes screwed up like he can’t fathom any of this. 

“I don’t know, exactly. Thirty, maybe? The Hale family timeline has a way of getting really fuzzy, and when you ask them to explain it, they all scatter like roaches under a sun lamp.” 

“I give you a lot of leeway, Stiles. I don’t play the disciplinarian card with you that much, and I like it that way, but this? You can hate me all you want right now, but consider the fact that you’re defending your right to sleep with someone who’s killed one of his own  _ family, _ Stiles. Think about that and ask yourself why this is so important to you. Think of what and who you’d have to sacrifice to be with Peter Hale. Do you think he’d do the same? Because I’m pretty sure that guy doesn’t do anything that benefits anyone other than himself.”

“You’re wrong. I know you’re not gonna believe me and neither is anyone else, but he cares about me. And he  _ would _ make sacrifices for me. He already has. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still cautious. Peter is not the kind of guy you should turn your back on without worrying he’s gonna pull a Brutus; I know that. He’s an asshole, but he’s… more complicated than that too. And for now? I’m not ready to give up on him. I want to see where it goes. I just hope you and everyone else can trust me when I say that I’ll bail if he’s a lost cause. I know my limits, and I know when it’s too late. But I haven’t gotten there with him. Not yet.”

“Stiles…” His father relaxes a little, the disgruntled lines in his forehead smoothing out into tender concern as he grips Stiles’ shoulders. “I love that you don’t give up on the people you care about, but this… this is different. This isn’t me not giving you the benefit of the doubt here. It’s Peter I don’t trust, and I’m sorry you’re upset, but Jesus Christ, Stiles… lines have to be drawn somewhere. It’s hard with a smart kid like you. It’s even harder when that kid’s already in way over his head every day with werewolves and druids and kanimas and god knows what else, but  _ this _ isn’t a hard decision. Think about it for a second. If you were me, what would you do?”

Stiles swallows hard, his throat contracting around a dry lump. It’s sort of an impossible situation to navigate because yeah, when you look at everything on paper, it sounds insane to demand that a parent just chill out and let their teenage son be in a romantic relationship with a homicidal werewolf of indeterminate age.

“That’s what I thought,” his dad says, letting go of Stiles’ shoulders. “We’re going home, and you’re staying there until further notice.”

“You’re grounding me? In what universe has that ever worked?”

“Trust me, I’m painfully aware of how you keep Houdini-ing your way out of things, but I will stand outside of your door all night if I have to. We’re having at least one peaceful night that doesn’t involve you running off to Mexico to risk your life or sneaking out to see your…” The sheriff closes his eyes and takes a deep, long-suffering breath. “Just—give me  _ one _ night, Stiles? My frayed nerves could use a rest.”

Stiles nods and tries not to drown in the overwhelming tides of guilt washing over him. He’s disappointed nearly everyone he cares about and witnessed his… whatever Peter is, slash Kate Argent to pieces. Maybe he needs one night without adrenaline-filled disruption too. 

  
  


***

  
  


Peter has always prided himself on self-sufficiency. He’s cunning and powerful and wealthy and extremely easy on the eyes. What reason would he have to rely on anyone else when he’s a self-contained machine anointed with every enviable gift that people covet in this life? Human relationships are a messy, inconsistent business. That faulty tradition of intertwining your life with the lives of others and hoping the bottom won’t fall out underneath you? It’s a promise as brittle as dried flowers. It’s for less discerning people. People who trust blindly. People who haven’t yet become disillusioned by all the misfortune and cruelty in the world, scattered about like spikes hidden in the underbrush waiting to slice your heels. People like the ever infuriating Scott McCall. 

Peter doesn’t  _ like _ other people. Well… not usually. Loyalty—true loyalty, that is, not the half-baked definition most imbeciles subscribe to—is hard to come by, and although he used to believe in it, that was before the fire. When he had a family. Sure, he might have still been fond of stirring the pot back then, but he was just a curious, savvy cat batting mice around. At the end of the day, above all else, he still protected one of his own. But now? After losing everything and everyone and knowing that Derek will always greet him with coldness and suspicion (which, okay, maybe he deserves that)? Loyalty is a foreign concept.

Or it was.

Yes, Peter doesn’t like many people. His standards are quite high, and that doesn’t really explain how a skinny, perpetually jumpy boy with a smart mouth pierced through Peter’s emotional armor, but he did. And the thing about Stiles is that he won’t be dissuaded once something has piqued his interest. Telling him no just makes him try a hundred times harder. 

Peter should know. It wasn’t like he didn’t try to keep Stiles at arm’s length at first. He was callous and aloof, and all it did was make Stiles call him on his bluff. Stiles bulldozes through boundaries like a very cute wrecking ball. 

If, the night he offered Stiles the bite, someone had told Peter that he’d one day be devoted to this boy, that he’d be one of those sublimely stupid people who stop thinking with pragmatism and let their fluttery hearts steer the ship, he would have had a few choice, sardonic words for them. 

Being in a coma for six years has a way of making you long for things you used to take for granted. It’s an isolation unlike any other. Peter is loath to admit it, but he missed companionship. He missed sex and sharing easy laughter with someone who genuinely enjoys your company. 

At first, that was fine. After all, what’s well-honed charm without someone around to impress it upon? It’s nice to be appreciated. Peter loves attention. He always has, and he was happy to have Stiles’ attention. What he wasn’t happy about was the unexpected sharp stab of concern for Stiles’ safety, the gentle nudge of empathy when the poor boy was worrying about the financial fate of his father, his whole body drooping under the weight of responsibility he shouldn’t have at that age. He wasn’t expecting to put Stiles above his own desires, to spare the life of that idiot Scott, foregoing the tentative promise of alpha status just to make sure Stiles doesn’t have a reason to hate him. He can just hear what Stiles would say about this reluctance. 

_ “Yeah, god forbid you admit you need someone and aren’t just an android asshole programmed for vengeance.”  _

Peter smiles, wishing Stiles was here in his apartment, taking up his space and his time and calling him out on his every emotionally stunted mishap. Peter really admires how fearless Stiles is. Stiles might be a small human Peter could snap like a twig, but he certainly doesn’t act like it. Stiles is a nervous, twitchy boy, but he stands tall in the face of everything life throws at him. He doesn’t lie down and wait for the steam engine to crush him. He spews caustic wit and goes down fighting. How could Peter  _ not _ want him? There’s an endless well of untapped potential in Stiles. Especially when he bends for Peter so beautifully, supple and willing to give Peter anything he wants. Stiles has as much bravado in the bedroom as he has outside of it, and once Peter has marked someone like that… well, let’s just say he’s the most territorial wolf of them all.

As Peter pours a glass of wine—he might not be able to get drunk, but he’s always had an affinity for the finer, aesthetically pleasing things—he hears a knock at the door. 

His lips quirk up because he figures Stiles, willful escape artist that he is, has probably wriggled out of the second story window of his bedroom and found his way back to Peter, vigilance of the sheriff be damned.

“Oh…” Peter says with a deflated exhale as he opens the door. There’s a Stilinski standing on the other side of it, but it’s not the one he was hoping to see. “And just when I thought I’d get to skip the trite little protective father act.”

“I told you there wouldn’t be a third time, Peter,” Sheriff Stilinski says, his hand resting on the gun in his hip holster. “Now, I don’t  _ want _ to hurt you—” 

“Really? Because our current predicament would suggest otherwise,” Peter says, waving toward the gun Stilinski has his fingers wrapped around. “In fact, to the outside observer, it looks like you came here with the express purpose of hurting me. Now, when you actually aim that gun and pull the trigger, what are you going to tell Stiles? That the bullet just magically slipped from the chamber by divine intervention? Or would you, the wholesome, moral, small town cop, outright lie to your son and tell him I attacked you?” 

“I don’t  _ want _ to hurt you, but sometimes we do things we don’t want to in order protect the people we love. I think that’s at least one thing you and I can agree on.” Stilinski removes his hand from the gun and holds it up in apology. “But for now, I just want to talk.”

Peter growls in the depths of his throat, but he waves the man in all the same. The idea of letting the sheriff into his apartment to have this tedious conversation is about as pleasant as having a whole power plant’s worth of electricity injected into his veins, but enduring this is part of keeping Stiles. He knows Stiles will allow for a certain amount of friction, but he also knows Stiles’ father is the most important person in the world to him.

“I thought about a lot of different ways to do this, but as much as I think my son is being an idiot right now, I also don’t want him to stop speaking to me,” Stilinski says, taking a seat on Peter’s couch. Peter picks up his wine glass and sits in the armchair across from him.

“Yet another thing we have in common. Tell me, when you fantasized about hurting me, what was your favorite option?” Peter flashes a cheeky smile and takes a slow sip of wine.

“Argent’s wolfsbane bullets. Not giving you the antidote to heal until you promised to get the hell out of town and never come back.”

“Good choice. Doesn’t leave me permanently affected, but it gets the job done and makes sure I stay writhing in pain, pinned right where you want me until you’ve said your piece.” Peter is almost impressed. He didn’t know the man had it in him. 

“Exactly,” Stilinski says with a hint of a smile. “But I’m not a vindictive man. When you’ve been on the force as long as I have, you end up having to do things you don’t want to in order to defend yourself. I know the scars you get from that. It’s not worth it.”

“Well, now that you’ve given me an after school special lesson in morality, how about you say what you came here to say, Sheriff.” Peter rolls his eyes and takes another sip. 

“We have a good relationship, Stiles and me. He tells me what’s going on with him… usually. It was a little dicey for a while there, but once he brought me into the fold about everything that happened after Scott was bitten,” Stilinski flashes accusatory eyes, and Peter heaves a sigh, “the lines of communication were open again. I’d like to keep it that way so I’m going to try to appeal to your better half.” 

“Bold of you to assume I have one, Sheriff.”

“You do or my son wouldn’t be wasting his time with you. He’s a good judge of character, and I trust him more than anyone. That’s the only reason there’s not a wolfsbane-laced bullet in your chest right now.” 

“I think the beginning and end of my better half is my affection for your son. The part of me that defies all selfish instincts and makes me want to protect him.” Peter is surprised that he’s being this honest with Stiles’ father, but it’s a delicate line to walk, keeping his distance while still not giving into the urge to snap and snarl to his heart’s content. Peter is a contrarian by nature. He likes to push shiny red buttons just to see what explodes. It’s hard not to prod and press to see how easily Stilinski breaks, but he’s holding off as long as he can. 

Stilinski regards him for a long time, his head tilted and his eyes shrunk down to slits. Peter’s guessing Stilinski didn’t expect him to say anything quite like that.

“If that’s true… if you really care about him that much, you know you’re not good for him. If you have any real feelings for Stiles, you’ll leave him alone.”

“Now why,” Peter sets his glass down on the coffee table and leans forward, his elbows on his thighs, his strong back curving like he’s ready to shift, a growl poised at the base of his throat, “when I want Stiles so very, very much, would I ever let  _ anyone _ tell me I can’t have him?” 

“He’s not something to own, Peter,” Stilinski warns, and they sit like that for an eternal moment, both hunched and spring-loaded with tension. 

“I see the family resemblance,” Peter observes. “Just what do you think you could do to stop me from seeing him?” 

“I told you there wouldn’t be a third time, Peter,” Stilinski replies, each word uttered slowly, deliberately. It’s a definite threat, and Peter really, really doesn’t like to be threatened. “I meant it. Just because I’m hoping I won’t have to play it like that doesn’t mean I won’t do what’s necessary. Leave him alone or I come back here, and it won’t just be with words.”

“You do that, Sheriff.” Peter picks up his wine, drains the glass, and sees the sheriff out. Peter feels like he’s earned an Olympic gold medal for this remarkable show of restraint. Stilinski is lucky he left with all of his limbs still attached to his body. 

That’s fine.

Let the idiot think he’s won this round. No harm in appeasing fools. It keeps them in line. They’re more malleable when they think they have leverage.

Peter can wait. Peter’s good at the long con. Some people are slaves to instant gratification, but not Peter Hale. Peter once waited six years to get revenge, and he’s betting the wait for Stiles will be considerably shorter. And the thing Stiles’ father doesn’t understand? Hearing that he came here to threaten Peter would only drive Stiles back into Peter’s arms even quicker. Stiles is innately rebellious. Stiles is bullheaded and determined. 

Maybe Peter will let Stiles know about this little “friendly” visit. Or maybe he’ll wait and see how the pieces move on the board. He hasn’t decided yet. 

Peter pours another glass of wine and checks his phone. There’s a pang of disappointment when he doesn’t see any messages from Stiles, and he feels a little pathetic about that.

  
  


***

  
  


The thing about a “quiet” night in is that it’s never all that tranquil for someone like Stiles. He’s a tightly compacted ball of anxiety and ADHD. His brain is playing no less than four different kinds of Thought Ping Pong at all times; he’s pretty sure the inside of his head looks like a hoarder’s storage unit—there are piles of organized chaos, but there are so many of them that an avalanche could strike and bury everything in a mess that could never be sorted again. 

Sitting still? That just makes it worse. He needs something to focus on, quandaries to solve, pages of research to sift through, woods to traipse across in search of something dangerous and unknown. Although the rift the supernatural world created down the center of his life is a constant source of stress, it’s also a welcome distraction. He’s never bored or lacking for things to do; the perpetual crises are lightning rods for his manic energy to touch down to. 

It’s Day Five of No Peter, and every time Stiles is sure he’s made a decision, he dives head-first into a new ocean of over-thinking. It’s like their relationship being a secret postponed the reality of the situation sinking in too deep, but now everything is sharp and clear as the sun. He’s barely spoken to Scott or the others (summer makes it easier to avoid people). He’s not sure he would know what to say if he did, and the last thing he needs right now is a bunch of people telling him what to feel. If the increasingly frantic texts are anything to go by, they’re all starting to get worried, but he fires off a reassuring message here and there to keep them at bay.

Again, one grease fire at a time.

The pro/con list on his dry erase board looks like the work of someone possessed by several chaos demons, all of whom have different, disastrous kinds of handwriting. Things are crossed out; there are arrows pointing every which way; there are parentheticals that made sense when he wrote them but are cryptic gibberish now. Stiles laughs as he looks at the very first con he wrote:  _ “murder” _ followed by the second con  _ “murder murder murder (it bears repeating).” _ When he looks at the pro column, his eyes flit over the words  _ “you probably love him?!” _ Below that, written in a smaller, more timid script is  _ “and maybe he loves you in his own stilted asshole way??” _ Stiles’ insides melt into sentimental goo, and he misses Peter so much. It’s a pointed, pervasive ache, like there’s a hook connected to the center of him, and every time he thinks about Peter—his smirk, his body pressed against Stiles, his intoxicating smell, his doting praise—something gives that hook a sharp tug. 

He’s been pacing around his room so much, he’s surprised his dad hasn’t come upstairs to ask if he’s trying to punch his way through the floorboards. He’s started and discarded no less than five books, tossing them to the floor in frustration after reading the same sentence ten times, the words just swimming on the page instead of imprinting their meaning on his mind. It’s the era of social media and forgettable thirty second clips of content aka the  _ perfect _ time for Stiles to be alive, but… nothing is satisfying him tonight. Instead of scrolling through the internet until his eyes feel like sandpaper, he’s given up. Stiles stops marching across his bedroom floor and flops onto the mattress with a groan.

His phone dings, and he lunges for it so ferociously, he nearly whacks himself in the face. When he sees that it’s a text from Peter, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

**Are you alright, sweetheart? Not to violate your request for space, but I want to make sure dear old dad hasn’t sent you off to reform school.**

Stiles laughs. His heart skips a beat, his cheeks go red, and he feels like a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush.

_no reform school_ _just chained up in basement, bars on windows. theres a bowl of water on the floor n a hunk of bread_

**A very Dickensian punishment. I admire the sheriff’s style.**

Stiles types and deletes several responses. He doesn’t want to sound too eager, but he doesn’t want to be too distant either. He’s marinating in a conflicting set of feelings right now. On one hand, he wants to just pick up where they left off, forget about all the complications and keep doing what they’re doing, just let it be the two of them and their banter and their bodies. But when Stiles remembers everything Peter’s done and the sticky spider web of everyone’s opinions, a thick network of overlapping traps he can’t dodge, Stiles and Peter pinned right in the middle to be devoured, it all falls apart.

_ I miss you  _ is what Stiles eventually settles on, hoping it will assuage Peter’s worries.

It’s a simple sentiment. It’s nice and it’s true, but it doesn’t promise too much either.

**Of course you do. I’m very missable.**

“You fucker,” Stiles mutters under his breath, but he’s smiling as he says it.

_ ha fucking ha. y don’t u just swallow your pride and tell me u miss me too, douchewolf _

**I miss you so much, baby. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to tell you to forget about everyone and come back with me that night. I don’t like knowing all of them are giving you reasons to change your mind.**

Well… that was unexpected. It’s thoroughly disarming when Peter is candid like this. Stiles knows what to do with the stubborn, acerbic Peter, but he’s never quite sure what to do with  _ this _ Peter. It’s a version of him that Stiles wants to believe in, but there’s always that vestige of distrust twisting around and around his heart. Barb wire laced with pretty flowers. 

Stiles flips onto his side and stares at his phone, twitchy fingers drumming along his thigh.

_ not to be all 1995, but can I call u _

Stiles’ eyes widen as Peter’s name flashes across his phone a mere second later. He swipes his finger across the screen and presses the phone to his ear, shifting onto his back.

“Hi,” Stiles says, his heart suddenly racing. He feels stupid for being nervous, but having a clandestine phone conversation with the guy he’s sleeping with is something he never thought would happen. Stiles doesn’t have reciprocated love interests. Stiles pines. Stiles and the word unrequited are very well acquainted, but here he is, having a dramatic, torrid romance that sounds like it’s out of some goddamn fanfic. I mean, fuck, there’s even a huge supernatural element. Stiles should capitalize on his own life and churn it into YA publishing magic.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter responds, and that husky voice goes straight to Stiles’ dick. Every. Damn. Time.

“So… crazy fucking Tuesday we had, huh?” Thoroughly embarrassed, Stiles closes his eyes and shakes his head, but this isn’t exactly an easy conversation to kick off. There’s no smooth way to break the ice.

“It was certainly one of the more eventful ones in recent memory.” Peter chuckles softly, and the sound makes Stiles tingle all over. It’s only been five days, but apparently he’s starved for all things Peter. “You seem… less angry than when we last talked.”

“I’m…” What is he exactly? It’s hard to say. Now that he’s on the phone, Stiles does feel sort of even-keel, but he thinks it might be temporary. It’s the exhaustion that comes after the spiral, the moment when everything sort of shuts off with a whirring sound. Stiles.exe is installing some updates, but when the reboot comes… who knows what’ll happen? “I’m in a lull for now.” 

It goes quiet on the other end of the line, and when Peter speaks again, it’s not what Stiles expected.

“How can I make this up to you?” 

“I don’t know, Peter.” Stiles laughs at the insanity of that question. “No relationship manual on this. Pretty atypical situation.” 

“Are we not atypical to begin with?” 

“Oh, that’s definitely us. A square peg in a round hole inside a rhombus.”

“Maybe this isn’t the right thing to say to gain me any points, but… it’s beyond naive for Scott to think this life doesn’t come with fatalities. I think there’s a dangerous misconception running through your group, an insistence that no one will ever have to get their hands dirty.” 

“He knows this life comes with fatalities. He just doesn’t think he has to be the cause of them, but… sometimes I think you’re right.”

“You do?” Peter asks with a note of surprise, and Stiles bites his lip because he doesn’t really want to reveal the ugly thoughts he’s had on this subject. These are thoughts he would like plausible deniability on. He wants to dig a twenty foot hole in the spot where they are and shovel dirt onto them until he can’t find it again, but he also knows Peter is about the only person he can say this to without judgment. “Stiles?"

“Part of me thinks she deserved it, Peter. Even Chris thought she was a lost cause. You could see it… when it happened, he was just like… numb. And maybe that was shock, but I think it was also like he’d kinda resigned himself to it? Like he  _ knew _ it would come to this. He obviously didn’t want to be the one to do it, but I think he didn’t really believe she could be controlled or he would have just grabbed her while she was weak from the wolfsbane. I don’t know… I’ve gone over it a hundred times, and I just don’t see any way she could have been kept under lock and key without escaping again and doing exactly what you said she would. Chris couldn’t change her when she was human, so how could he or anyone else have changed her as a fucking werejaguar? I’ve seen so much goddamn death in the past two years, and some days it’s just… it’s hard not to wonder if some of it could have been prevented by the deaths of people like Kate. There’s clearly something wrong with me.” 

Scott always has faith in the goodness of everyone, but Stiles? Stiles is leery of a lot of people until proven otherwise. It’s not that he’s not trusting or friendly. He’s not a cynic. He’s just a realist, and Kate never really showed any indication of being multi-faceted. It’s exactly like Chris said in the cave: she wouldn’t have died for anyone, not even her own family.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Stiles. There’s a difference between justified retribution and senseless homicide. These things aren’t as black and white as people wish they were, and they don’t admit that because it’s too uncomfortable. They’re too cowardly to face it. The fact that you’re letting yourself think about it means you’re  _ not _ a coward.”

“To be clear, I still wish you hadn’t done it.”

“I know. You wish it hadn’t happened, but you think it might have been necessary. Is that about right?”

“Yeah… that’s… yeah, I guess that’s pretty much it.” Stiles twists the bedsheet around his finger and fidgets on the mattress. “Peter, I feel like we’re at a stalemate.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look, I don’t want you to change completely. I hope you know that. I like who you are, flaws and all, but, you know, a little less murder, preferably  _ no _ murder, would be nice, and I don’t know if you can do that.” Jesus, what even is Stiles’ life? When did  _ “I’m hoping you can stop wanting to kill people so we can continue fucking” _ become an acceptable conversation to have? A therapist would have a field day with him.

“Stiles… I think ‘a little less murder’ is a compromise I can more than manage. As long as no one comes around trying to kidnap or kill me again it shouldn't be much of a problem at all. Is that really the only thing you’re worried about?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and thinks for a minute, eyes scanning the dry erase board, and he’s surprised to realize that yes, that’s really the only dealbreaker. Everything else scrawled on that board and his mind—the disapproval of Scott and his dad, Peter being shit at vulnerability, figuring out where their relationship is headed—is fixable. They’re all things that can be worked on with honest conversations and time. Maybe Stiles is completely unhinged, but to him, nothing else about their relationship feels insurmountable. 

“It’s the only huge thing. I think everything else will work itself out eventually, but… I can’t be with you if I have to defend a new rage kill every week.” 

“All of the lives I’ve taken were in pursuit of a singular revenge goal. Some were collateral damage, yes, but I will remind you again that I’m not the uncontrollable feral animal Kate was. That said, when it comes to you, I’d burn down anything or anyone who got in my way. You are mine, and no one is ever going to hurt you without severe consequences, most of which would probably involve me gutting them until they resembled the viscera-lined floor of a slaughterhouse.” 

“Jesus… why do I just get horny instead of horrified when you say things like that?”

“Because we’re made for each other. And because you take care of everyone around you, but no one takes care of you, Stiles. You like that I would protect you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t normally  _ let _ anyone take care of me so this is kinda weird for me. Maybe I’m only okay with it because you’re such an asshole.” 

“Easier to feel like I owe it to you?”

“You absolutely do owe it to me. Who else would put up with your winning personality? But how are you so comfortable with this now? I feel like I need some gaps filled in. Like, specifically what happened between ‘this is not a romance’ and now?”

“You’ve already seen it happening, Stiles. You’ve very annoyingly called me out on it several times. But I think the nail in the coffin was seeing your face after I killed Kate and knowing you might leave me. And that everyone around you would happily usher that along, particularly Buffy Summers and his Scoobies.”

“Did you just—” Stiles blurts out a rather unattractive snorting laugh, but he can’t help it, “call Scott Buffy Summers?!”

“Am I wrong?” Peter asks, laughing right along with him. 

“No. No, I guess not. I’m just wondering if that makes me Xander or Willow. You are  _ clearly _ Faith.” 

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment, and you’re neither. You’re just Stiles.”

“You know what? Fuck everyone. No one gets to decide if we’re together except you and me. They’ll just have to get over it.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Peter responds, and Stiles can hear the proud smile in his voice. “Are you… decided then?”

“If we’re together, we’re officially together, okay? No more ‘I don’t like labels’ bullshit. That doesn’t work for me. If saying the word ‘boyfriend’ makes you want to vomit, then call me your partner, your subby sex slave, your paramour like we’re in some Russian novel about adultery, whatever you want, but just… make it clear and don’t chicken out, okay?” Stiles places his hand on his chest, taking a deep breath and trying to get his heart to slow down.

“Hmm, subby sex slave might be the winner.”

“Be serious, Peter.”

“I would be very happy to call you my partner, Stiles.”

“Good,” Stiles says, a broad grin dancing across his lips.

“Any other caveats?”

“Scott, my dad, all the people who aren’t exactly ready to throw us a party right now… they’re always going to be in my life. I’m not expecting everyone to be hugging and getting matching friendship tattoos any time soon, but I don’t want you to be under the impression that you can pretend to be okay with Scott for a while and then start some underhanded manipulation to drive us apart. No machinations. I’m a package deal.”

“Can I at least make the Buffy Summers joke to Scott’s face?”

“Are you kidding me? Absolutely. I’d pay good money to see that. I’m not asking you to  _ like _ him. I just want you to promise me that you’ll tolerate him. And no more threatening my dad either.”

“He told you about that?”

“Of course he told me.”

“He threatened me first, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, he found out his only kid was sleeping with a killer werewolf. Cut him a break. He was just being a good dad. He’ll calm down eventually.”

“I will… do my best not to cause undue tension with your father, but when provoked, I do bite back. You know this.”

“Oh, I definitely know,” Stiles replies, shaking his head. What would a family holiday be like with Derek, Peter, Stiles, and his father? Reality show-worthy drama right there. “Thank you.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, I also picked out this really great lingerie set you’re gonna need to model for me, maybe clean my room while you’re wearing it too, bend over every now and then so I can—”

“Any  _ serious _ terms and conditions?”

“Hey, your ass in black lace is  _ very _ serious business.” 

“Stiles, I would appreciate it if you didn’t continue to draw out the suspense. Five days has felt… considerably longer than I imagined it would. I will ask you again: have you decided?”

“Oh…” Stiles feels a twinge of arousal at that. It’s wonderful to know Peter was stewing in the same yearning over these last few days. “Yeah, I have. Let’s do this damn thing, Peter. I’m not that great at the whole needing space thing. I cave pretty fast.” Stiles doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of his anxiety or what, but he can’t relax until something is resolved. He’s scared of losing people, and well… apparently Peter is one of those people. 

“I knew you would.”

“Yeah yeah, you arrogant bastard. Shut up.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Peter just lets out a devious chuckle. “I wish I could see you right now, but my house is like Fort Knox. Nothing’s gonna get by my dad. He’s so paranoid I’m gonna slip out the window. He’s eased up a bit, but I’m pretty sure he’s still staking out the front of our house.”

“Is he really wrong to be paranoid?”

“Noooooo, I do have a reputation for that shit. That’s how I ended up in the woods in the first place. It’s sort of my fault Scott was there for you to bite.” Stiles looks out his window, the moon huge and blindingly silver, and thinks about how this whole twisted thing has come full circle. It started with Peter. It’s always been Peter.

“Well… just because he would notice someone getting  _ out _ doesn’t mean he’d necessarily notice someone coming in. I’m very, very good at being stealthy,” Peter says, the sultry velvet of his voice making Stiles’ cock ache. Stiles traces a finger along the erection tenting his pajama bottoms. 

“And what if he finds you on top of me with your dick in my ass? I’d rather our weird little romance not have a Shakespearean ending.” 

“Do you have another ending in mind?” Peter would sound cavalier to anyone else, but Stiles doesn’t miss the hint of insecurity there. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Good,” Peter says firmly, like that’s the final say on the matter. “Shame I can’t be there right now. I’d quite enjoy watching you try your hardest not to moan, driving you right to the edge until you think you might lose your mind if you don’t scream. Fucking you slow and deep. I bet I’d have to put my hand over your mouth. You’re not very good at being quiet.”

“Mmm, sorry,” Stiles gasps, slipping his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and gripping his swollen dick. 

“Nothing to be sorry about. You make the loveliest noises when I fuck you. Are you touching yourself right now?” 

“No,” Stiles lies, his hand freezing on his cock.

“I might not be able to hear your heartbeat through the phone, but I still know when you’re lying, sweetheart,” Peter says, and Stiles thinks he falls for him a little harder every time he calls him that. 

“Okay, yeah… just a little,” Stiles admits, letting his hand drift down to gently squeeze his balls. 

“Want me to talk you through it?” 

“I want you  _ here,” _ Stiles whines, his fingers curling around his shaft and starting to stroke up and down. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I promise you I don’t care about what your father would do. I’m not invincible, but I’m pretty close.”

“No, I don’t… I don’t wanna think about what would happen if you did that. Please, just—”

“Shhhh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. My sweet, needy boy… are you thinking about me inside you? You’re such a greedy slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

“You know I am,” Stiles confesses, blushing fiercely as he strokes himself, shifting his shoulder up to keep the phone pressed to his ear. He lowers his pajamas down around his thighs to make it easier, hiking his shirt up a bit, knowing he’s going to make a mess of himself soon.

“Nothing else is good enough, is it?” 

“No… god, no. No one could ever… not like you.”

“I know you were being a little brat when you said this, but you were right: you’d look so lovely in Europe in the spring. I want to fuck you all over the French countryside.” 

“Well, I hope you’re paying because I have negative money.” 

“Oh, I would relish the opportunity to spoil you, baby. Even though you’d fight me every step of the way.”

“Yeah, I’d probably make you regret taking me before the plane was even in the air.” Stiles laughs, lazily touching himself, savoring the sensation of his cool hand on feverish skin, fantasizing about being with Peter far away from Beacon Hills, a place where no one knows about all their baggage. 

“You striving to annoy me in record time is sort of our foreplay though, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, I guess so… you like it?” Stiles is pretty sure the answer is yes, but he needs to hear it.

“You know I do.” 

Stiles wishes there was a way to accurately explain this feeling to other people, the warmth and familiarity between them in these moments, the affectionate Peter who’s grudgingly fond of him and rises to Stiles’ every snarky comment. The flirtatious Peter who looks at Stiles like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like he wants to consume him in every possible way, like he won’t ever get enough. 

“I think I’ll tie you up again soon, but I won’t let you off easy this time. This time I’m going to make good on that promise to tease you for hours. I want to leave marks all over your lovely skin until there’s no doubt about who you belong to.” Peter's voice is starting to sound a little wrecked, making Stiles tug at his cock harder, his stomach tensing as his back bows off the bed.

“Pleasepleaseplease do that,” Stiles gasps, careful not to whine too loudly. He loves the idea of being covered in bruises and bites, being able to look in the mirror and see the evidence of Peter’s ownership, to press his fingers into the marks and feel the ache.

“What else do you want me to do to you, Stiles? What do you think about when you’re touching yourself like this?”

“Mmm… want you to fuck my mouth more. I love choking on your cock, just… feeling it push at the back of my throat. Wanna ride you too.” Stiles’ blush deepens. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been fucking for a while now; he still gets bashful letting these dirty thoughts out sometimes. 

“Can I tie your hands behind your back when you ride me? You’d look so gorgeous bouncing on my dick. Do you know what I love most of all?”

“What?” Stiles is panting now, so fucking close but still feeling a little empty knowing it’s not Peter’s hand on him.

“The way your cheeks go pink when I tell you what a good boy you are for me.”

“Fuck—Peter—I—” And then he’s coming, splashing across his stomach, feeling warm and euphoric and held by Peter’s soothing voice.

“Better?” Peter hums, and it sounds like a caress, like Stiles can feel Peter’s fingers on his cheek.

“Sort of… but I still miss you,” Stiles laments. “Can we spend the day together tomorrow?”

“Wild horses couldn’t stop me. I can be a patient man, but my patience only extends so far.”

“Good.” Stiles chuckles softly, settling into the sheets. He’s getting sleepy now, like everything that’s happened the last few days is finally catching up to him. He hasn’t really slept much since that night in Mexico. 

“Don’t fall asleep until you’ve cleaned up, baby.”

Stiles groans, and Peter laughs.

“Why do you always make me feel like this? I shouldn’t…” Stiles doesn’t finish the thought because he’s starting to feel too sluggish for words, his heavy eyelids falling closed.

“I don’t know, but I’m grateful for it,” Peter whispers, and Stiles smiles sleepily.

“Peter… sometimes I…” Stiles mumbles, one foot planted firmly into dreamland, drifting the rest of the way into slumber before he can say something he’s not sure he’s ready to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, SO: Peter killing Kate is a scene I had planned from the very beginning of writing this, and I hope the balance of Stiles' back and forth feelings on it worked okay for y'all. 
> 
> I think there's always an interesting discussion to be had in the TW-verse as far as "well, what values do we assign to different transgressions on the morality scale/what sins are worth forgiving and why?" I think Peter has always been a villain with standards and rules and lines he won't cross. He has his own moral compass, even if it differs vastly from the morality of someone like Scott. And I think Stiles sits somewhere in the middle of those two. He's had a lot of canon moments where he disagrees with Scott's dogmatic stance on murder, and I think with someone like Kate... there's the initial shock of seeing it happen, but it's less about her specific death and more about all the feelings it brings up. It makes Stiles think "well, fuck... what will Peter do next and can I handle that risk? What _are_ Peter's rules and limits around this sort of thing and does it align with mine enough that I can see us together?" Also, I always sort of hated that no one stepped in when Chris let Kate slither away in s4? Literally everyone was in Mexico that night. SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE STEPPED IN. 
> 
> Also, even though Stiles is stubborn and defiant, he's a fiercely loyal person devoted to his friends and family, which is why I have him alternating between "fuck everyone, I want what I want, this is my decision" and "shit, I feel so guilty wtf is wrong me?"
> 
> Other miscellaneous bits: I think Scott did smell it on Stiles, but he's been pretending he didn't because he did not want to believe it. Sheriff Stilinski... oof, so I love that dude so hard. Would put him on a list of "fictional dads I wish were my dad." And it's a hard balance to strike in this because he _does_ let Stiles walk all over the boundaries he sets aaaallll the time, but he's also a protective father who is a damn cop. Do I think he'd really hurt or kill Peter? Nah. But I think, given that s4 moment of him almost shooting Peter and saying "there won't be a third time," he's feeling kind of Too Fucking Through with Peter Hale and this would indeed make him snap enough to threaten him. Ugh, I feel like I had more to say, but I can't remember so again I will just say BE GENTLE WITH ME LOL.
> 
> Oh, and if this seems like the fic is winding down? It's not. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeellllooo, friends. It is late on a Wednesday here, and I meant to put this up tomorrow but whew... I desperately needed a distraction. Maybe you do too? (Maybe even for some of the same reasons I do?) I never start writing a story until I have an ending in mind, and there's a particular way I wanted this one to go, both in terms of Steter and how everyone in Stiles' life feels about them. This was an irresistible way to properly get to that endgame and yet another way for me to rewrite some canon scenes I wish had had some Steter goodness. :) So uh... fuck, hope you like it. *peeks shyly between fingers* I promise smut will happen again!

This is the first time Peter has really thought about a future for himself after the fire, one beyond the short term reward of revenge. If he’s being honest, before Stiles, he was avoiding thinking about it entirely. He’d relinquished the idea, accepted the possibility that he’d die during his quest to take the lives of those responsible for decimating the Hale pack, and decided the risk was worth it. And now? Now he’s lived and died and lived again, all of it unprecedented and unforeseen, and he’s not sure what to do with that.

Peter is sifting through mementos on the dusty shelves of the Hale vault. There are lifetimes of memories housed in this underground space. It’s almost a sepulcher for the living  _ and _ the dead, a collection of all things Hale, things Peter hasn’t let himself think about for a while now. He runs his fingers over the objects (a handbound journal of his great grandmother’s, his grandfather’s ornate carved wooden pipe, jars of herbs and oddities) and thinks about how many times he’s been down here but refused to really look at anything in a meaningful way, breezing by the shelves and heading to the safe. These items tell a story, points of his lineage threaded together like pearls on a string, clacking down to rest side by side. 

At last, Peter finds what he’s looking for, an unruly stack of old photographs, and he shakes his head as he sorts through them, stopping when he lands on a picture of him at twenty-two. It’s a photo of him in profile, the right side of his face captured by the camera as he laughs at something his sister Talia is saying, the woods of the Hale property spreading around them like a brochure for an autumnal paradise, the ground littered with orange and red leaves, the lush grass stretching into the distance behind them. Talia is leaning on the handle of an axe, the blade embedded in a tree stump, severed logs scattered at her feet. Derek is the one who snapped the picture. 

He remembers the moment. He’d stumbled upon her chopping firewood and teased her about it. 

_ “You know you can just buy logs now? Do you want me to swing by Utah, grab an ugly dress from one of the Mormons so you can go full on Little House on the Prairie?” _

_ “You want to give it a shot, pretty boy? Just because you’re too lazy to do any real work doesn’t mean the rest of us are,”  _ she’d taunted back with a smirk. Peter and Talia were always cordially combative siblings.  _ I can make fun of him, but I will fuck up anyone else who dares to say shit,  _ that kind of thing. They butted heads a lot. They were very different people, but they were still fiercely protective of each other.

As he places the photo in his jacket pocket, Peter laughs at himself. Peter Hale, grabbing a picture to give to a boy he likes as though he’s a pining fifteen year old. It’s beyond absurd, and even more astounding is that the future he’s contemplating? Stiles is the building block for it.

After all, if it weren’t for Stiles, there wouldn’t be much keeping him in Beacon Hills anymore. Kate was living on borrowed time, and now that mistake has been rectified. Peter has his money again, and Derek… well, Peter will always check in on that broody, walking martyr complex of a nephew—honestly, he should have been a vampire in a bad romance novel—but he sees no reason to be right next door, especially in the internet age. They can reach each other when they need to, and Derek won’t really want him to anyway. 

Peter gets in his car and drives to Stiles’ house, parking across the street and surveying the area for any trigger-happy fathers roaming around. When he’s satisfied that he won’t be seen, Peter gets out and crosses the street, walking up to Stiles’ Jeep. He tries the driver’s side door, and, just as he expected, it opens with a creak.

“Idiot,” Peter mutters with a fond smile. If he scolded Stiles about leaving it unlocked, he imagines he’d get a response like  _ “come on, who would want to steal this piece of crap?”  _ It’s an assertion Peter can’t really argue with; Stiles’ Jeep is about 60% duct tape. It doesn’t run on gas; it runs on hope and prayers.

Peter flips the sun visor down and slides the picture underneath the clip on the outer edge, flipping the visor back up so the photo is hidden. It’ll be a nice surprise for him to find at some unexpected moment. Peter shuts the car door (locking it first), and his eyes drift over to Stiles’ bedroom window. The lights are out so he’s probably still immersed in a peaceful post-orgasm slumber. Did Stiles even bother cleaning up or is he currently lying under his sheets, shirt bunched up to reveal a come-stained belly? If Peter had been there, he would have lapped at Stiles’ stomach until nary a drop remained, rubbing his cheek against that smooth, pale expanse of skin, nosing along the traces of fragrance left there, scent-drunk on Stiles. 

Peter isn’t sure if Stiles knows what that does to him, if he understands the complex relationship wolves have to smell. I mean, research obsessed as Stiles is, he  _ knows _ to an extent, but there are certain things that can’t be taught through facts on a page. Some things demand experience to make the full, rich truth known. It’s more than just heightened awareness; it’s a sixth sense of perception and bonding; it’s the paramount way wolves relate to their environment and the people around them, especially those who are born wolves, the human and the beast never separate. 

Still, Peter underestimated the power of his scent mingling with Stiles’, of being close enough to the boy to sense his every fear and desire, of how those signals would drive him toward his own parallel wants and needs. It’s especially hard to ignore when Stiles allows Peter to dominate him. 

And it  _ is _ an allowance, whether or not Stiles understands that. There’s a great surrender required to be a sub, and surrender isn’t synonymous with “powerless.” Stiles holds more cards than he thinks he does, and Peter knows he’ll awaken to that truth in time. Stiles is perspicacious as they come. The way Peter reacts to Stiles’ every cue, the immense magnetic pull of satisfying him, the craving Peter has for the sweet relief of smelling Stiles’ contentment and knowing he’s the one responsible for it? It’s all so intoxicating, and Peter should have known better. In his defense, it’s been quite a few years since he’s had the opportunity to be intimate with someone at length, too many years spent inert in a bed with only his thoughts for company, and before the fire? Peter had never met anyone like Stiles. He didn’t know it was possible to find anyone who could keep up with him. Be the yin to his yang. 

He quells the ridiculous urge to crawl up to the second floor and knock on Stiles’ window—does dating a teenager make you revert back into being one yourself?—and decides to let him sleep. They’ll see each other soon enough. 

There’s a loud crack of thunder, and Peter raises his head, brow knitting together as he sees a flash of lightning that brightens the whole sky. Odd… it was completely clear only a minute ago. The lightning is followed by more resounding thunder and a gust of wind, and Peter rushes across the street to get to his car before he gets caught in a downpour. He stops short when he sees a figure standing in front of his car door. Whoever (or whatever) they are, they’re clad in outrageous cowboy gear, an over-the-top getup that feels less ridiculous when Peter’s eyes rove up to see the eerie, cavernous appearance of the creature’s face. There are pools of darkness where eyes should be, lines like grooves in the bark of a tree streaked down the cheeks. 

“Huh… is that a voluntary fashion choice?” Peter asks with a tilt of his head, gesturing up and down the creature’s body. “Because if so, I have to say, this is not working for you. In fact, I don’t think it would work for anyone, not even a Montana ranch hand or an obscure  _ Gunsmoke _ cosplayer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be on my—” As Peter tries to reach around them to grab the door handle, the figure pulls out a large revolver and cocks it, pointing the gun at Peter’s head. Peter holds up his hands, letting out a snarl as his fangs drop. “That’s how it’s going to be? Fine. How about you—”

There’s a bang as the gun goes off, the sound almost as loud as the thunder overhead, and a puff of green smoke surrounds Peter. He feels himself disappearing, dissolving until vapor, a terrifying sense of nothingness as his body leaves Beacon Hills.

  
  


***

  
  


**_Three months later_ **

“We're all going off to college soon, Stiles. Beacon Hills is gonna have to survive without us,” Scott says, and Stiles slumps in the passenger seat of his Jeep. Stiles is having trouble feeling remotely celebratory about the end of high school. Since senior year started, all he’s been able to think about is how this is the beginning of the end. The end of Scott living just down the road, the end of meeting up with Malia and Lydia for late night diner fries and milkshakes, the end of defending his hometown from all the supernatural forces that are drawn here.

“Beacon Hills will  _ burn to the ground  _ without us!” Stiles insists, but there’s an uncomfortable spark of sadness in his heart because he knows Scott is right. Change is supposed to happen. Nothing ever stays the same in this world, and Stiles is just going to have to accept that, preferably sooner rather than later. Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out, “dad” flashing across the screen. Triumphantly, Stiles turns to Scott and holds up the phone. “See! They need us!”

Stiles needs to feel useful. It’s almost a compulsion, really. It soothes him and gives him some semblance of control amidst the turmoil. Maybe that’s not the healthiest thing in the world, but right now? He’s not in the mood to therapize himself and overcome this particular compulsion. He just wants to see what the next Beacon Hills problem is and plunge head first into solving it.

  
  


***

  
  


Stiles squints at a collection of photos on the wall in Alex’s bedroom. The frame surrounding one of the photos says “#1 Dad,” but there’s no one in the picture except Alex. His arm is lifted and bent, like he’s resting his elbow on the shoulder of someone taller, but there’s just empty space next to him. Everything clicks into place, and Stiles finally knows what people mean when they say they feel like someone’s walking over their grave. Everyone (Scott, Stiles’ father, Lydia, Parrish, Malia) has been deadset on believing this is a simple murder case, something that can be solved with logical detective work and nothing else. Stiles has felt like he was screaming into the void, fighting to get anyone to listen, but now, he wishes they were right.

Alex’s parents weren’t killed. They weren’t taken. They were  _ erased. _ This poor kid’s family is gone in a way that’s more permanent than death, and Stiles is pretty sure Alex is right: whoever did it is coming for Alex next. 

There’s a gust of wind behind Stiles, and it’s colder and emptier than anything he’s ever felt, a chill that makes him feel like no warmth will ever touch him again. Stiles sees the bedskirt blowing outward, like the wind is coming from underneath the bed, and even though every instinct is telling him to run, he slowly crouches down and lifts the fabric, bending his head to look underneath it. Two immense black hooves hit the hardwood with a clatter, the fur gathered around them thick and matted with what looks like blood. Stiles jerks back, standing up to see the rest of it, but there’s nothing there.

He has to get the fuck out of here  _ right now. _ Wasn’t he the one who told Scott they shouldn’t split up? How did he end up all alone up here?

Stiles bolts out of the room and slams the door behind him, pressing his back flat against it as he tries to catch his breath. He’s dizzy, the air rapidly leaving his lungs, a pure, unadulterated panic settling over him. The wind starts again, rustling leaves across the hallway—were those there before? He’s pretty sure he would’ve noticed that—and now Stiles  _ really _ feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s trying to inhale but the atmosphere has been sucked dry of all oxygen, an unforgiving vacuum. In the back of his mind, there was some dumb, childlike notion that he could get away from whatever this was if he just shut the door behind him, like the evil could be contained to that room. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and forcibly takes a deep, shaky breath, but when he opens them, there’s a figure standing in front of him. It looks exactly like Scott described the thing he saw in Alex’s memory: boots, cowboy hat, long coat. It has soulless eyes that aren’t eyes at all; they’re just black, empty space. The creature removes a gun from a holster on its hip and aims the pistol at Stiles.

“Wait!” Stiles pleads, throwing his hands up. It’s the kind of thing he used to think was a cliché confined to fiction. He’d watch horror movies and shake his head at the idiocy of the characters. What good does it do to tell a killer to wait? To shriek  _ “stop, don’t do this”  _ as though they care, as though all they’ve been waiting for is for someone to beg nicely? But the truth is, the desperation you experience under a threat to your life… it draws out these nonsensical pleas, it makes you beg before you even realize what you’re doing. It’s automatic. Stiles knows that now. He’s seen it so many times before.

The cowboy fires off a shot, and Stiles ducks to avoid it. There’s a strange blue-green vapor that comes out of the chamber, and the bullet whizzes by Stiles’ head, passing through the door behind him. The shots keep coming, and Stiles presses against the door again, arms crossed in front of his face in a futile attempt to protect himself and then— 

It’s over. His whole body trembling, his breath ragged and sharp, a thousand knives puncturing his lungs with every inhale, Stiles lowers his hands and sees the cowboy is gone. Mason, Liam, and Scott come bounding up the stairs, and the sight of them makes Stiles feel slightly less unhinged.

“What happened?” Scott asks, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder when he sees how undoubtedly freaked out he looks.

“He was here. He shot at me!” Stiles turns around, pointing at the bullet holes in the door. “It was one of the guys you saw in Alex's memory.”

“The guy who took his parents?” Mason asks.

“No, no, no,” Stiles answers with a shake of his head. “They weren't just taken. That's why there's no furniture, that's why they weren't in any of the photos. They were  _ erased.  _ It’s like they never existed at all.” 

Stiles wraps his hand around the knob of Alex’s door, afraid of what he’ll find but knowing he has to check. When the door swings open, everything is gone. No bed, no photos, no traces of Alex left. It’s a dusty, barren room like the rest of the house. Stiles feels like he swallowed a heavy rock, and he’s sinking under the weight of it in the pit of his stomach.

If this is what those creatures can do, who’s next? What chance does anyone in Beacon Hills have if they can be erased from existence with the pull of one trigger?

  
  


***

  
  


“I keep feeling like it's all familiar, you know? Like I've heard it before. Like it’s some foreboding fairytale I grew up listening to. I don’t know…” Stiles is walking with Lydia, furiously flipping through the pages of a book that details all sorts of accounts of mass disappearances, none of which sound quite right. Everything is off. Adjacent but not exactly what he’s looking for, like a word that almost means the same thing but doesn’t. “And there’s like this feeling that I’ve forgotten someone too. I don’t think it started with Alex and his parents. I think… fuck, I don’t know!”

Stiles snaps the book shut and thrusts a hand in his hair. Everything is growing more confusing by the second, and he hates this feeling. He hates being stuck on a puzzle. Things are supposed to get clearer the longer you mull them over, a picture that reveals itself once more pieces are slotted into place, but the trouble is, Stiles hasn’t really amassed any new pieces. He’s just turning the same useless information around and around in his head like a dryer stuck on the spin cycle.

_ “Pensée a civage? _ It's French for ‘a lingering thought you can't reach,’” Lydia offers with a shrug.

“Okay, well, is there a French word for ‘feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency and impending doom?’" Stiles hears his voice rising in pitch, reaching levels of hysteria he feels bad about, but he can’t help it.

_ “Féminine une fille phantom? _ It's French for ‘Banshee,’" Lydia jokes with a small smile, and it makes Stiles relax a little bit. Bless her for putting up with his anxiety-ridden mania. “You don't have to figure it all out right this second, Stiles.”

Lydia places a hand on his shoulder, and he nods, taking a long, steadying breath.

“I’m sorry, I just have this feeling like I’m running out of time. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but it doesn’t feel like it’s me freaking out just because I’m  _ me. _ It feels…” Stiles chews on his bottom lip, trying to gather the right words, “I don’t know what your premonitions are like, but this is  _ something _ like that. It’s more than just a guess. It’s a visceral gut punch, and every minute that goes by without me figuring it out? It's making a bigger, deeper crater in me.” Stiles looks over at Lydia because she’s gone quiet, and there’s an intense frown on her face, her eyes glassy and unfocused. It’s an expression Stiles recognizes. It means she’s heard or seen something he hasn’t.

“Give this man a ride, sweet family will die… Killer on the road…” Lydia mutters, and Stiles tilts his head.

“‘Riders on the Storm?’” Stiles asks, and Lydia’s head jerks like it’s on a string, the faraway look falling from her eyes as she turns back to Stiles.

“What?”

“The lyrics you just quoted. It’s The Doors. ‘Riders on the Storm.’”

“That's it!” Lydia exclaims, revelation lighting her eyes. 

“What? What is it?” Stiles is practically vibrating out of his skin at the thought of finally getting a single clue to help thread this jumbled mess together.

“The Ghost Riders! The Wild Hunt. They come by storm, riding horses, and they take people.”

“Holy shit, Lydia. You’re so smart. I love you!” Stiles hugs her, leaving her gaping in confusion as he runs off to find Scott. There isn’t time to explain. There isn’t time for anything.

  
  


***

  
  


It’s like a nightmare he used to have after his mother died, a dream about being a ghost in plain sight, standing in the shadows and calling out to his dad, but he doesn’t hear him. In the dream, Stiles would scream himself hoarse, but his dad would refuse to look at him, and when Stiles would reach out his hand, instead of connecting with his shoulder, it would pass right through. As though Stiles was nothing. Just vapor, mist, atmosphere floating by to never be noticed or heard from again.

Except this isn’t a dream. Stiles is staggering to his car, his heart thumping so loudly, it’s all he can hear, a rush of blood and rhythm filling his ear, a relentless drum that is the only proof he has that he’s still alive. Lydia’s mom didn’t recognize him. Liam and Mason didn’t know who he was.

His own  _ father _ didn’t know who he was, and now he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, trying to keep his quivering hands steady as he slides his phone from his pocket. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Scott has forgotten him. Stiles’ finger hovers over the button. He doesn’t know what’s more terrifying: calling or not calling. 

He closes his eyes and throws his head back against the seat. When he opens his eyes again, his brow furrows as he sees something peeking out from under the sun visor. Lowering the visor, Stiles plucks a photograph that’s clipped to it. It’s a picture of a man and a woman standing a few feet apart in a backyard somewhere, both of them laughing on a vivid autumn day. 

It’s like looking at one of those magic eye illusions. Everything about the image is fuzzy and obscure at first, but as he squints, adjusting his eyes and really seeing the picture, he  _ knows _ who it is. Memories trickle back in like raindrops, speeding up until it’s a veritable flood, a missing scroll of his life that he didn’t know someone removed.

Not removed. Stolen.  _ Erased.  _

Just like Alex. Just like Stiles is about to be. Just like— 

“Peter…” Stiles breathes, and it’s like fresh air is whooshing in and chasing out all the cobwebs, like he’s no longer choking on emptiness. “They fucking took you. I was right. I  _ knew _ I was missing something. Jesus Christ, Peter, I… I’m so sorry.”

Stiles traces Peter’s face on the glossy paper. He’s younger, but he’s still very much Peter Hale. Cocky grin. Broad shoulders. Soft hair that Stiles can just  _ feel _ between his fingers right now.

It's like someone has dunked Stiles into icy water, a place too dark and cold to withstand. All those regained breaths are gone because now he’s even more worried than before. If they took Peter, who else have they taken without Stiles noticing? How can he trust the reality he sees around him? What separates the truth from the mirage?

One thing’s for sure: he has to try Scott. If he’s going to be taken, he has to do everything he can to leave an imprint before he goes. Maybe it’s futile, but it’s all he has left. Stiles picks up his phone and presses Scott’s name.

“Hello?”

“Scott, do you remember Peter? He’s the werewolf who bit you, he’s Derek Hale’s uncle, he’s—he’s sleeping with me, and you really fucking hate that but I’m kind of in love with him.”

“I don’t understand…”

“They took him, Scott! Alex and his parents aren’t the only ones, and… I’m next, okay? My dad doesn’t know me anymore, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do so just please,  _ please _ tell me you remember me, Scott.” Stiles’ voice breaks as the sobs begin, fat tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Who is this?” 

Stiles throws the phone to the floorboards and beats his fists against the steering wheel. What are his options now? Just keep running? Wherever he goes, they’ll find him.

Maybe Lydia and Malia haven’t had their memories taken yet. Every ounce of hope is rapidly slipping from Stiles’ grasp, but other than having a full-on breakdown in his Jeep, he doesn’t know what else to do. Wiping away his tears, Stiles steps out of the car and heads back toward the school, hoping Lydia is still around. 

As he rounds a corner of the building, he runs into her, ripples of fear wracking his body as he waits to see any hint of recognition in her face.

“Stiles!” Lydia says, and he’s so happy, he scoops her up for another hug.

“Oh, thank god! You know me!” Stiles holds her by the shoulders, still a bit wary, knowing this moment could evaporate any second now.

“I know you… but I think everybody else is forgetting,” Lydia chokes out, and seeing her on the verge of tears makes him feel like he’s going to crumble again too. Before he can say anything, Stiles hears the click of spurs and the rustle of leaves across the parking lot. Slowly, he turns around, and there it is. A Ghost Rider.

“Hey, do you see him? The guy on the horse?” Stiles whispers, and Lydia’s eyes widen as she realizes what he means.

“Stiles, if you can see them, they're gonna…” 

“No, I know. I know. Okay, they're coming for me, so you have to get away from me right now, okay?”

“I'm not leaving you!” Lydia says, and although Stiles is touched that she’s willing to stay with him until the end, he doesn’t want her in the path of this. Seeing the Riders starts a ticking time bomb on your existence. He doesn’t want that for her or anyone else.

“All right, come on! Come on!” Stiles clasps Lydia’s hand and leads her in the opposite direction of the Rider, but another one appears after a couple of seconds. He tries another path, but it’s the same. They’re surrounded, and there’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Trying to thwart the Riders is like trying to cheat death. Stiles knows this, but he’s running on adrenaline now, that last vestige of driving force pumping through his veins and shaking his muscles awake, telling him to keep going, going, going. “This way. Come on!” Stiles shouts, steering Lydia toward his Jeep.

“Where are they?” Lydia asks, her voice quavering as she gets in the passenger seat. Stiles climbs in the driver’s seat and frantically thrusts a hand in his pocket. He plucks out his keys, but his hands are shaking so badly that he drops them to the floorboards right away.

“They're everywhere. Lydia, don't look at them, okay? If you see them, they'll take you, too!”

“I won't. I won't!”

Stiles picks up his keys from the floor, but then he sees the photo of Peter. Peter the wily, stalwart, intelligent wolf. Even his last name means strength. None of it saved him. None of it helped him avoid the same death knell that’s calling for Stiles.

“What are you doing? We need to go!” Lydia urges him on, shaking his shoulder, but Stiles just turns to her with a rueful smile.

“I can’t outrun this, Lydia. It’s already done. I'm going to be erased, okay? You're gonna forget me.”

“I won't! No, I won't. I won't!” Lydia cries desperately, her chest heaving with sobs. Stiles holds her hands in his and looks at her the way you look at someone you think you’re seeing for the last time, cataloguing everything to take with you so their image won’t ever fade from your memory. The wind and thunder is picking up now, everything rising to a fever pitch as the Riders close in, the heavy beat of hooves coming down like a fatal threat hammered into the pavement.

“Lydia, you will. Just try to find some way to remember me, okay? They took Peter, but I found this picture in my car.” Stiles picks up the photo and holds it in front of her face. “Maybe they can’t erase everything. Maybe people leave something behind, like pressing your hand in wet cement, some mark that shows you were  _ here. _ Find mine. Find my mark and remember me, okay?”

Tears are springing freely from Lydia’s eyes now, her lower lip quivering, but Stiles tries to stay strong. He tries to say everything he can, as fast as he can because time is running out. He doesn’t have time to be afraid. It’s hard to know what to say when everything is at stake, so Stiles just speaks from the heart. He opens his mouth and trusts it to say what matters most.

“Remember how I had a crush on you for years and years, just annoying the fuck out of you, following you around like a little puppy that couldn’t stop jumping at your heels, but then… then you really got to know me. And you became one of the most important people in my life, one of the best fucking friends I have ever had and ever will have. Someone I’d die for. Remember how you saved my life?” Stiles’ words are being swallowed by sobs now. He can’t hold it back any longer. Everything is too horrifying.

“You saved my life, too.” Lydia squeezes his hand, and they look into each other’s eyes, time frozen for a few precious seconds, the ominous roar of the Riders’ approach dulled in Stiles’ ears.

“Just remember… remember I love you so much, Lydia. You’re a part of me, and you always will be.”

Stiles hears the door being yanked open behind him, the creak of the hinges, and then there’s something wrapped around his waist, pulling him from the car and away from Lydia. Lydia shrieks, and Stiles feels every decibel of it in his body. It shakes him to the core. Rattles his bones and pierces his heart.

  
  


***

  
  


When Stiles wakes, it’s not really waking. His eyes are open. They’ve been open. It gives him Nogitsune flashbacks, that ambiguous stage between waking and sleeping where nothing and everything is real. It’s like gradually coming to after being under hypnosis, blinking slowly as the world around him slides into view.

There are two boards in front of him: one for departures and one for arrivals. Beacon Hills is listed among other towns he doesn't recognize. Stiles looks around, pinpricks of sensation coming back into his body like he’s been frozen stiff for a while, every dormant muscle waking up, and he sees train tracks to his right. There are long wooden benches all around the room, and they’re full of people, presumably waiting for the trains listed on the board. 

There’s something off about the whole scene. For one thing, every person in the train station is facing forward, unblinking and unresponsive, expressionless faces that make them seem more like corpses than living people. No one is moving. Not to scratch an itch or adjust their glasses or shift in their seat. It’s complete stillness, and it makes Stiles feel like he’s in a morgue. As if that wasn’t bizarre enough, the place is empty of all sound too. It’s not a normal kind of quiet. This is a total absence of anything; it’s like someone sucked all traces of life out of the room by force.

“Excuse me, sorry…” Stiles says, turning to the woman seated next to him. “Where are we?”

“We're at the train station,” she answers, as though that explains everything.

“Right. Okay. Helpful,” Stiles mutters. The fog is lifting from his mind, and he shakes the rest of the stupor away, a tendril of unease starting to build inside him. “Which train station, exactly?”

“Train station number one-thirty-seven,” the woman supplies, pointing to a number on the wall, and Stiles suppresses a huff of annoyance.

“Did you see me come in?”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Maybe an hour?”

“We got here at the same time,” a bespectacled man seated on the other side of the woman chimes in. It’s like a domino effect of awareness spreading through the people next to Stiles, his questions provoking responses, but there’s still a zombie-like quality to it all. “It's been at least six hours.”

“Six hours?” the woman asks, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. Stiles is guessing she has no idea how much time has passed. He has a distinct feeling time is a construct that’s hard to nail down within the walls of this train station. Suddenly, the PA system crackles to life, and a man’s voice comes over the speaker.

“The following stops have been cancelled: Hollatine, Batten, Baybury, Deer Ridge, Red Oak.”

As though the announcement is a trigger to action, the whole room rises up, shuffling toward the tracks on catatonic feet.

“Excuse me, do you know what train this is?” Stiles asks a woman as she passes by, but she keeps walking like she doesn’t hear him. “Does anyone know where this train's going?!”

Stiles grows more frantic, trying to get the attention of anyone he can, but it’s the same every time. No one speaks. No one stops. They just keep walking toward the tracks like they’re being pulled by an invisible thread.

It’s then that he hears it. The hooves, the wind, the spurs, the warning signs of Ghost Riders approaching. Soon, they’re emerging through the tunnel on the tracks, huge black horses clattering through, whips swinging through the air, and the whole station wakes up at once. Everyone is yelling and scattering, looking for somewhere to run and hide, but there’s nowhere to go. The Riders’ whips crack through the air, wrapping around legs and arms, dissolving people into green smoke. 

Stiles runs, but he doesn’t make it very far before he’s yanked back by the collar of his shirt and pressed against a pillar.

“Stiles?” Peter is looking back at him with bewildered eyes, and Stiles has never been happier to see anyone in his whole life. 

“Peter?! Oh my god, you’re  _ here.  _ You—” Stiles reaches for him, eager to fold into Peter’s chest and kiss him, but Peter pulls away, looking toward the tunnel the Riders have now retreated back into. Everyone in the station snaps back into their trance, pacing over to the benches and taking a seat. Peter does the same. Why is Stiles the only one not compelled under whatever spell this is?!

“Peter? Peter! What are you doing?” Stiles implores, sitting next to Peter.

“I'm waiting for my train,” Peters says matter-of-factly, like he’s following a script.

“Okay, did you not just see that?”

“See what?”

“The horses, the hogtied businessmen with the magically dissolving ropes?!” Stiles gestures incredulously, spinning around to see that everyone is back to comatose status, completely ignoring his shrill frustrations. “I'm sorry, did anyone just see that?!” Stiles shouts, his pulse rising as he realizes he might very well be alone in this fight, the sole awake person in a sea of drugged-out prisoners. “Okay. So, you're waiting for a train,” Stiles tries again, forcing the words to come out with a modicum of patience. Maybe if he’s calm and keeps chipping away at the illusion, he can bring Peter back to himself. “How did you get here?”

“Pretty sure I drove here,” Peter muses with a frown, and it’s just like the woman Stiles first spoke to, like each person in here is programmed with plausible stock answers, a vague set of tricks assigned as though the Riders were too lazy to come up with more details. Or maybe more like they didn’t have to? Besides Stiles, everyone in this station is fully immersed in the compelling potion of whatever they’ve concocted. They’re not questioning the validity of a damn thing.

“Okay, Peter, I’m going to need you to try and think.” Stiles places his palms on Peter’s thigh, hoping the grounding touch will ignite something. Peter looks down at Stiles’ hands like he’s looking at something he’s seen before, but he can’t quite recall the name of it. “The last time I saw you, you had just killed Kate, remember? I was furious about it. We were arguing, and everything was a mess, but then—then you called me and we talked and we were gonna be together. Do you remember that? Do you remember…” Stiles takes a gamble and lays his incredibly intimate cards on the table. Why the hell not? Apparently, no one in this room is listening anyway. “You talked to me while I jerked off. You told me everything you wanted to do to me, and I wanted you so bad but I thought… I was worried about what my dad would do so I wouldn’t let you come over.”

Stiles bites his lip, marinating in a high-cresting wave of guilt. Maybe if he’d let Peter come over, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Stiles could have protected him, could have saved him.

“Oh…” Peter’s cheeks start to pinken, and it’s like Stiles can see the lightbulb going off in his mind. “I was outside of your house… I drove there to leave a picture in your Jeep. I—”

“Yes! You did, and I found it, Peter! It’s how I remembered you.”

“What do you mean?” Peter shakes his head vigorously, as though trying to dislodge a memory buried deep inside. “You forgot me?”

“It’s what they do, Peter. The Ghost Riders, those guys on horses who put us here. They don’t just take us. They erase us completely, all traces of us so no one remembers we ever existed. But I think sometimes people leave something behind because I found that picture, and I remembered you. God, it was like… it all came rushing back, and I missed you so fucking much. I missed you like I’d been missing you the whole three months you were gone. Like I’d known the whole time.”

“Three months?! I’ve been here for three months?!” Peter stands up, head whipping around as though he’s just now seeing the train station for the first time,  _ really _ seeing it and realizing what it is. “Jesus Christ…” Peter runs a hand down his face and turns back to Stiles, a smiling blooming on his lips as he closes the distance between them. He holds Stiles’ face in his hands, and Stiles looks at Peter like he’s a fucking god who walks on water and is here to save him. “Stiles… baby. God, it’s good to see you.”

“I thought… I thought I’d lost you,” Stiles whispers, a lump forming in his throat, but Peter kisses it away, his lips smashing hard against Stiles’ mouth, his fingers winding in his hair. Stiles clutches at Peter’s shoulders, holding on for dear life, afraid of separation, afraid it would be the end of everything if he lost sight of Peter again. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Peter purrs in Stiles’ ear, nosing against his neck, scenting him and making Stiles go lax and warm in his arms. Abruptly, Peter pulls back. “Wait, did you say Ghost Riders? Ghost Riders of the Wild Hunt?!”

“Yeah, you know what I'm talking about?” A flicker of hope lights inside Stiles. If Peter knows what they’re up against, maybe they have a chance of getting out of here.

“Of course I know what you're talking about,” Peter replies with an eye roll, and Stiles can’t help but smile. It’s good to see that lovably arrogant bastard being a predictable asshat. It makes everything seem less scary. Peter sits down on one of the empty benches, bracing his elbows on his thighs and hanging his head. “Odd choice for an illusion, isn’t it? This looks like the underground lair of a depressed bureaucrat. If this is the Wild Hunt, there is no escape for us.”

“Enough with the pessimism, douchewolf. We haven’t even tried yet. Let’s save the despair for when we’ve really beaten our heads against the wall, okay?”

“You really have to stop spending so much time with Scott. That incurable optimism makes me nauseous,” Peter says with a wrinkle of his nose.

  
  


***

  
  


“By all means, try again. It’s not like we’re short on time. Personally, I think this Sisyphean loop you have going is rather amusing. I could watch it all day. Better than anything on prime time cable,” Peter quips as Stiles emerges from a door on the left side of the station. 

Stiles has tried every damn door in this fucked up purgatory, but every time, he just ends up passing through  _ another _ door that leads right back to this eternal waiting room.

“Well, at least I’m doing  _ something. _ As usual, you’re sitting on your ass and waiting for someone else to do the work,” Stiles rebukes, but then he’s being pulled by the sleeve without explanation. “What the hell are you doing?” Stiles hisses as Peter shoves him against a pillar. 

“Left shoulder, against the pillar behind us. Don't look,” Peter whispers, head down. Stiles starts to turn, and Peter catches Stiles’ chin in his hand. “I said  _ don't _ look, not ‘draw as much attention to us as possible.’ He's watching us.”

“Well, that’s fucking weird considering everyone else in here is more catatonic than the patients at Eichen House.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Peter jerks his head to signal that Stiles should follow him, and then he starts slowly walking toward the guy leaning against the pillar. “Why are you watching us?” Peter accosts him when he’s a few feet away, but the guy takes off running.

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, jogging after him, wrenching the man back by the shoulder when he catches up. “You heard him. Why are you watching us?”

Peter comes to stand beside Stiles, and a little ping of excitement runs through him, leaving goosebumps along his arms. It feels powerful to stand side by side with Peter like this, to be working together on the kind of mystery he usually solves with Scott and Lydia. 

“You tried the doors. Nobody ever tries the doors,” the man explains.

“Sounds like you have,” Stiles points out.

“The ones I could open. I've tried everything.”

“Not everything. You're still here,” Peter says with a sneer, taking a step closer. Stiles steps closer too, and the man’s posture shrinks but he doesn’t move. Probably because there’s nowhere to move  _ to. _ They’re all imprisoned little hamsters dashing around in a cage.

“Yeah, it seems like you got some kind of a plan. So, why don't you tell us about it?” Stiles crosses his arms. The two of them are less  _ good cop, bad cop _ and more  _ bad cop, badder cop, _ but fuck it. Stiles doesn’t have time to be nice. He’s impatient as fuck. He wants answers, and he wants them now.

“I can tell you… doesn't mean you can do it,” the guy says with a derisive sweep of his eyes.

“Did you hear that, Peter? He doesn’t think we can do it.”

“Hmm, he doesn’t know us very well, does he, Stiles?” Peter shoots Stiles a wry smile, and it sends the blood straight to his groin. Stiles gives him a look that he hopes says,  _ “when we get out of here, we’re going to fuck so hard, we’ll break the bed.” _

“Well, it's right in front of your face, but you didn’t think of it, did you?” The man gestures to the stark, shadowy opening of the tunnel. “You know why? Because you’re afraid, and that’s what they want.”

“I'm not afraid,” Peter says, but the words are unsteady. Stiles thinks he knows why. The closer they get to the mouth of the tunnel, the opening like the unhinged jaw of a mighty predator, a primal fear settles itself deep into Stiles’ marrow. It creeps in like a cold no fire can banish, the same pervasive chill he feels when the Riders are near.

“He can't do it,” their obnoxious new friend says.

“We really should kill him,” Peter grumbles, and Stiles smiles.

“How about we try to go through first. If we’re still here weeks later, and he’s driving you up the fucking wall, you have my permission to slash, okay?” Stiles winks, and Peter’s lips quirk up.

“Push me,” Peter mutters under his breath.

“What did you say?” Stiles whispers back

“Push me!” Peter hisses, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His whole body is taut as a piano wire, his shoulders shaking like he’s holding something back, winding everything impossibly tight in the hope that the energy will uncoil and propel him forward.

Stiles gently unfolds one of Peter’s clenched fists and laces their fingers together. Peter looks down at their joined hands like the sight is enough to make him cry. Stiles has never seen Peter afraid, let alone  _ this _ afraid, but he understands. It’s the same way he felt when he first saw those hooves in Alex’s bedroom, and it’s worse now, standing here at the edge of an abyss of the Riders’ creation.

“I’m not gonna push you,” Stiles says. “We go through together or not at all.”

Peter nods, trying to force a smile, but it fades as soon as they walk into the darkness.

  
  


***

  
  


“Peter, where the fuck are you going?” Stiles doesn’t know what Peter saw when he read those names on the departures board, but whatever it was, it made him go white as a sheet and he hasn’t said a single word beyond  _ “we’re fucked, everything is fucked.”  _ He just marched toward the tunnel and went right in, leaving Stiles to stumble blindly after him.

“They really went full throttle on the abandoned haunted house vibe, didn’t they?” Peter takes one look around the cobwebbed room, dust an inch thick on every surface, the whole place looking like a crypt. 

“Yeah, must have taken decorating tips from Derek,” Stiles sighs, helplessly waving his hands in the air. “What’s going on, Peter?! The Riders are coming through here any second now!”

“I know,” Peter says, turning around and fixing Stiles with deeply sorrowful blue eyes. Stiles knows what Peter’s planning to do before he even says it.

“Oh, no… no, no, no, you can’t! You saw what happened to the guy who showed us this portal!” Stiles points to the shimmering gateway at the other end of the tunnel. “He tried to go through, and it fucking fried him into dust.”

“He was human. I’m better than human, remember? I’ll heal.” Peter grips Stiles’ shoulders and tries for a placating smile, but Stiles can see right through it. Stiles knows Peter’s as scared to try this as Stiles is to let him. There’s no certainty here. Everything about this place is nebulous, and this is the biggest, most fucking dangerous gamble of them all. “I’ve survived being burned alive a few times. One might argue I’m an incineration expert. There’s no better candidate for the job.”

“But I just—I just got you back,” Stiles gasps, wincing as the whinnying of horses and the click of spurs gets closer. “You can’t leave me here.”

“Baby, believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do, but it’s unfortunately the  _ only _ thing I can do. Everyone you’ve ever known, that entire death trap of a town you call home is in danger of disappearing, and this is the one shot we have. So I’m going to take it. I will survive, and I will find your friends. I will find my way back to you, I promise. You’re not dying here, Stiles. I won’t let that happen, and I always get what I want, don’t I?” Peter’s hands move up to cup Stiles’ face, and Stiles can’t decide if it hurts worse to look at him or worse to look away. If he looks… it might be the last time he gets to see Peter. Meeting his eyes is the same as admitting that horrific possibility. But if he doesn’t? Then he’s the one who didn’t get to look at the man he loves one last time. Stiles finally forces himself to meet Peter’s gaze, and those sparkling blue eyes cut right through him. There’s something breaking down the center of Stiles, splitting him from the inside out like an earthquake running down a fault line. Peter kisses him hard, a claiming kiss that’s all bruising lips and overwhelming heat, and Stiles knows he’s crying before he feels the quake in his chest, the telltale prick of wet warmth rolling down his cheeks.

Peter walks away, quickly and with purpose, like he knows it’s now or never, like he knows he’ll be too tempted to change his mind if he doesn’t act now.

“Peter!” Stiles yells after him, and Peter turns his head to the side, but he doesn’t turn around. “I love you.”

Even though Stiles can only see Peter’s profile, he can tell he’s smirking when he says, “I know.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Peter?! You’re gonna Han Solo me right now? When I might never see you again?” Stiles kicks some rubble across the tracks, and it might be the most childish gesture ever, a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Jesus Christ… if there was ever a time to say it back…

Peter turns around and runs back to Stiles, enveloping him in a hug so firm, it almost hurts. 

“You’ll see me again, Stiles. You know I’d burn down the whole fucking world to save you. I’d burn down the world just to  _ kiss _ you one last time,” Peter whispers in his ear, and Stiles shivers because he knows it’s true. Peter would do that and more. Peter would do anything for him. Strange how clear that is now. Stiles has spent so much time being wary of Peter’s intentions, cross-examining every word, every action, trying to figure out what’s real. Now, he can’t imagine a time when he ever doubted this. “Of course I love you, you idiot.”

Stiles smiles as Peter kisses him again, but the Riders are right behind them, the steady rhythm of the horses accelerating into a gallop.

“Distract them. Buy me some time,” Peter says as he lets go of Stiles.

“How?!”

“You’ll think of something, clever boy. You always do.” Peter smiles proudly before hopping up off the tracks and pressing his back against one of the pillars, poised and ready to strike when the moment arrives. 

As soon as the Riders come barreling through the tunnel, Stiles starts throwing anything he can find on the tracks: benches, debris, rusted signs. It trips up the Riders for only a couple of seconds, but then Stiles jumps down in their path too, a whip cracking into the air and curling around his neck, constricting like the body of a snake, squeezing until he thinks he’s going to black out. One of them slips through the gateway, and suddenly, the whip is off Stiles’ neck, the Rider who attacked him losing interest and following his cohort through the portal.

As they pass by him, Stiles turns to see Peter landing on one of the horses. The horse bucks, trying to throw him off, but Peter holds fast, gripping the Rider sitting in front of him.

Just before he reaches the portal, he glances over his shoulder. It’s a Last Look. Stiles should know. He’s given and received many of them. He’s been in so many situations where he thought he was about to take his last breath that he’s lost count.

It’s not that Stiles doesn’t believe in Peter. He does. But believing in someone isn’t always enough. The universe doesn’t care what you believe in. It doesn’t spare you all of its planned foils and tragedies simply because you’re bursting with hope. It plows right through your defenses, the barriers you’ve erected to keep yourself safe, and leaves them in a mangled heap on your doorstep.

It isn’t until Peter passes through the portal, no shrieking pain or disintegration like the man who showed them this part of the station, that Stiles finally breathes, letting his lungs fill up with the buoyant air of hope again. 

Peter made it. Stiles can’t know if he emerged on the other side unscathed, but he  _ did  _ make it through.

If that’s possible, maybe it’s possible he can get Stiles out of here too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 5? Don't know her. No Peter being in Eichen House, no Lydia being in Eichen House, although I am sorry to miss out on you, Theo "Murder Twink" Raeken. (I know he's too jacked to be a twink, but he just has Big Murder Twink Energy to me idk.) 
> 
> SO ANYWAY, for this fic's purpose, Peter killing Kate was during the summer before Stiles' senior year (which has been mentioned off and on in the fic, but wanted to clarify just in case!) I wanted that train station reunion in a proper kissy way, goddammit. I AM INDULGING MY OWN WHIMS. I hope it's still entertaining, AND as you can probably tell from how much ground this chapter covers, it won't be very long before Peter gets Stiles the fuck out of there. When I said last week "this fic isn't winding down," I meant more like... "we have more than just a resolution chapter to go, darlings." Because I thought that phone conversation at the end of the last chapter might have made it seem like it was pretty much over? Judging from what I have left to write, I'm thinking two more chapters. But it could be more because I uh... have a tendency to be a longwinded fucker. And as y'all can probably tell by now, I also tend to go "oops, this sex scene alone is 10 pages long." My finger just slips into the smut, man. IT'S A COMPULSION.
> 
> ETA: If you ever want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm around (the porn may have left, but I just cannot quit the blue hellsite): [punchedbymarkesmith](https://punchedbymarkesmith.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I barely know any Steter ppl so feel free to squee with me. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii. It has only been a week, but somehow it feels like forever to me. One of the joys of posting a WIP is that sometimes you get the same crew coming back from week to week, and I love how that makes it feel like we're all hanging out together across the internet. <3 Hope the week is treating you well!

What the fuck has Peter’s life become? 

He’s in a hospital bed, his skin as crispy as the outer layer of a marshmallow left on the campfire too long, and it feels like his internal organs are slowly liquifying, like someone turned on a pressure cooker inside him. Why did he make that crack about being an incineration expert? Clearly, he blocked out just how fucking terrible it is to be broiled like a side of beef or he wouldn’t have willingly done this.

If he could laugh right now, he would, because his internal monologue is starting to sound a lot like the person he did this for. What is it they say about couples who stay together for decades? That they start to merge, their features rearranging until they resemble one another? Sometimes Peter thinks he can see that happening with him and Stiles. Not physically. More like a confluence of personalities, Stiles embracing his devious side the longer he’s with Peter, and Peter drifting a little more toward the compassionate middle. 

Not that he’s ever going to  _ not _ be an asshole. He’s just an asshole with a weakness, and that weakness is in the shape of a beautiful, brilliant boy for whom he’d apparently leap to his potential death.

Christ… Peter went right through a magical portal whose energy field was powerful enough to essentially be a giant bug zapper for the human form, and he didn’t even think twice about it. He just did what he knew he had to do. For Stiles. Not to mention all the fluffy, confessional, romantic comedy-esque things he said right before he leapt through that barrier. 

Things he actually meant with all of his cold, dead heart. 

Not very apex predator behavior.

“Remember who you're dealing with. Your father is a ruthless conman who always has an underhanded plan to hurt everyone around him. What happens when he gets up out of that bed? You got a plan of your own?” Melissa McCall asks Malia. They’re standing to the right of his bed, freely speaking about him like he’s not there. Like he’s an inconsequential, idiot child, and they’re adults spelling out words above his head so he can’t comprehend them. Peter groans, but it’s not because of the pain radiating from his third degree burns. It’s because he’s beyond exasperated with the self-righteous members of the McCall pack. When will they awaken to their hypocrisy? They have pack members situated at all points of the corruption spectrum, but for some reason, everyone gets a pardon except for Peter. 

They keep talking, and Peter lets his eyes fall closed. He’s beyond exhausted, but he needs to push through it. He needs to help Stiles, and he can’t do that while he’s supine and weak, his body riddled with wounds.

“You said he was dying anyway. What does he have to lose?” Malia says, and Peter finally gathers the strength to speak.

“I can hear you,” Peter grits out. “I'm not dead yet.”

They both part the clear plastic curtain that’s drawn around Peter’s bed and walk closer. 

“I think they put that there to protect me. Glad to see you're obeying hospital protocols,” Peter says. His body might be cracked and verging on broken, but his sass is still very much intact.

“Your daughter asked me to treat you,” Melissa replies, her hard eyes making it very clear that there’s an implied  _ but I didn’t want to _ at the end of that sentence.

“Then why do I still look like a pig who’s been roasted over a fire pit at a luau? I can understand why you might want to keep me hideous since my handsomeness is very intimidating, but I can’t be much help to you if I’m too charred to move.” The two women exchange skeptical glances, and Peter’s patience is gossamer-thin. “Every second you waste on furtive looks of disapproval is a second that could have been used on figuring out how to save Stiles.”

“You really want to help with that?” Malia asks with raised eyebrows, and Peter sighs so heavily, it burns his scorched lungs.

“No, I just risked my life for him because I couldn’t care less,” Peter snipes, trying to sit up but promptly lying back down with a grimace. Even the chafe of the sheets against his skin is unbearable. 

“You did this for Stiles?” Malia narrows her eyes, and Peter wonders if it’s not just because she’s doubting his motives. There’s a wriggling worm of hope inside Peter that whispers,  _ “maybe she wants you to be coming back for her too.” _

But Peter’s not the most touchy feely of people at the best of times, and he’s not sure he can handle two Hallmark moments in the span of one day. Besides, he hasn’t earned it with Malia. Anything he might say, no matter how many kernels of truth are embedded within it, would be met with suspicion and probably a fair bit of anger too. And unlike the rest of the Beacon Hills Justice Brigade, she’d be right to feel that way. Peter hasn’t done much to prove he’s willing to make up for lost fatherly time. Not yet.

“Tell me, why is it Chris Argent can help usher in the sinister agenda of his geriatric psychopath of a father, and Derek can sire a brood of hormonal teen wolves to carry out his every homicidal whim, yet none of it sticks to them? It just slides away like water off a duck’s back while I’m stained forever.” Peter’s mostly posing a rhetorical question because, at the end of the day, infuriating or not, he doesn’t much care what they think. As long as they stay the hell out of his way. 

“Maybe because they actually show remorse and try to be better people,” Melissa answers, her hands on her hips.

“As much as I’d love to lie here while you lecture me on morality, I believe there was something about healing me? If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to skip ahead to that part. Unless you’re fine with everyone in Beacon Hills being picked off by demented mythological figures whose John Wayne-inspired wardrobe leaves something to be desired. Personally, I’d like to get out of this bed and start doing something about that.” Peter is rapidly shifting from annoyed to murderous. Why are they wasting time when they could be helping Stiles?

Melissa pulls a large syringe out of her pocket, and if Peter’s eyebrows hadn’t been singed off in the portal, they’d be drawn up high because he does  _ not _ like the look of that oversized needle.

“What the hell is that?” Peter asks.

“I know about the nine herbs,” Melissa responds before plunging the needle straight into his chest without warning.

If Peter thought everything inside him was burning before, he isn’t sure what to call this. It’s like dousing the flames with grain alcohol and gasoline. He cries out and thrashes on the bed, gripping the sheets in his fists as the herbs flood his veins. He knows about the nine herbs, but he’s never experienced them, had no idea it would feel like bleach excavating his every pore, carving holes in him as it floods out the toxins. His scarred exterior starts to slough off like he’s a molting cicada, leaving a new layer of fresh, unmarred skin, and finally, it’s over.

He’s still weakened from the damage. It’ll likely take a couple more hours before he’s feeling one-hundred percent, but he doesn’t need to be firing on all cylinders. He’s ready.

A rush of adrenaline flutters through Peter, but when he tries to stand, he stumbles. Melissa and Malia help to support his weight, each of them taking one of his arms and slinging it around their shoulders.

“Let’s get him out of here,” Melissa says to his daughter, and Peter takes a deep breath. 

_ I’m coming, sweetheart. Just hold on a little longer. _

  
  


***

  
  


“You're going to bite Stiles?” Lydia says, every word deliberate, like she wants to give Scott a chance to change his mind.

“It’s the only way to get him through the rift,” Scott explains. He’s quiet about it, which isn’t at all the way someone should sound when they’ve decided to turn another person. Much of the alchemy of the bite and why it does or doesn’t take is a strange mystical unknown, but there are theories, Emissaries taking stock of all variables and trying to draw connections between them. One of those theories is that intent and determination matter. Peter doesn’t know if that’s true, but when Stiles’ life is at stake, he’s damn well going to comb through every possible factor.

“Just to clarify,” Peter interjects, walking toward Scott, “are you planning on biting everyone in the train station? Because the thing is, even if the bite takes and we can pull Stiles back through the portal, the Wild Hunt won’t stop. The Riders are still going to be the Energizer bunnies of eradicating humanity’s existence. They’ll just capture him and the rest of us all over again.”

“With Stiles back, he'll be able to help us figure out a plan,” Scott responds, and Peter rolls his eyes at the sheer myopia of this supposed alpha. How on Earth did Scott McCall ever become a true alpha with such poor instincts? He’s always flying by the seat of his pants, and Peter is pretty sure Scott would have been dead long ago if it weren’t for Stiles.

“He's good at that,” Malia agrees with a nod, and while Peter is glad to see Stiles’ pack actually acknowledging the fact that Stiles is the glue holding everything together, it’s not much help when he’s not even here.

“The plan is to get Stiles to come up with a plan? To rely on him to fix everything for everyone because you’re so used to dumping all your problems in his lap like a bunch of spoiled children who’ve been coddled their whole lives?” Peter knows he’s not helping anything by snapping, but he’s so fucking frustrated by everything: Stiles being trapped, Peter being stuck here with a bunch of uncooperative, undisciplined teenagers who have no idea what they’re doing, knowing that they’re running out of time.

“You can shut up now.” Malia glares at him. She’s gripping the desk she’s standing next to, the wood creaking under the pressure of her hands, her claws popping out.

“I like your plan, Scott, I really do,  _ especially _ the part about turning Stiles.” When Peter told Stiles he likes him the way he is, he meant it, but there’s a reason he offered him the bite years ago. Peter doesn’t make decisions like that without thought. “But there are too many things that could go wrong. Too many what ifs.”

“You got a better idea?” Liam challenges, and Peter squares his shoulders, trying to tamp down the urge to collide his fist with a sixteen-year-old kid’s jaw.

“Unfortunately… no, I do not,” Peter admits. “Scott, you better hope your ridiculous flair for beating the odds is still going strong. And just know that, even if it’s completely irrational, I  _ will _ blame you if Stiles doesn’t tolerate the bite or meets an untimely end in some other way because of your sloppy, impetuous planning.”

“You really love him, don’t you?” Scott stares at Peter intently, a little crease forming above his nose.

“Gee, what tipped you off? The part where I spared your life because I couldn’t bear the thought of making him so angry that he’d never speak to me again? Or the part where I  _ willingly _ risked my life to get here and enlist the less-than-stellar help of all of you fools to save him? Honestly, with observational skills that keen, you are truly a legendary alpha. Formidable powers of deduction.” Peter snarls, but Scott just beams at him like he’s overjoyed.

“I think I’m starting to see why he likes you,” Scott says, still smiling. Peter doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Alright,” Peter sighs. “Let’s find this rift and get him back.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Peter tumbles onto his back, letting out a defeated roar when he sees he’s looking at the crumbling ceiling of the same cursed train station he escaped.

“Peter?” 

Peter hears footsteps and then Stiles is standing over him. Regardless of Peter’s utter failure, it’s good to see his face. Stiles extends a hand, and Peter takes it, letting Stiles haul him up off the floor.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, his hands on Peter’s upper arms, and he hates that he has no news of consequence to deliver.

_ Well, I made no progress whatsoever. Might as well have stayed here and screamed at the walls all day. That’s about as much help as I’ve been. _

“I’m very possibly a moron who has shed the last vestiges of self-preservation. That’s what happened,” Peter sighs, and Stiles cants his head. “Malia and Scott found the opening to the portal. It was underground. Scott was going to slip through, find you, give you the bite, and bring you back, but the Nazi psychopath teacher at your school closed it and I, for reasons unknown, temporarily lost my sanity and let the Riders take me so Malia and Scott could escape.”

“Wh-what? Information overload here. What Nazi psychopath teacher?” Stiles steers Peter over to one of the benches. There are considerably less of them now. The station is emptying out. If it’s possible, this place is even spookier and more desolate than before.

“The new physics teacher, apparently?” Peter sits down next to Stiles. “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I would very much like to assist in ripping him to shreds. I’m sorry I… I said I’d get you out, and here I am, right back where we started.” 

“It’s okay.” Stiles shrugs, but Peter can actually see the hope draining from his face. 

“No, it’s not. Feel free to be pissed off.”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Stiles looks genuinely puzzled.

“Because I failed you. Because I’m supposed to be virtually untouchable and yet I’ve proven to be about as useless as I was in a fucking coma. Because—” Peter gestures to the nearly barren room around them, “all of this senseless bullshit is happening to us for no reason! Because I need you to be angry that I fucked up!” Peter’s practically panting now; he can feel his eyes glowing and knows his fangs will probably drop any second now. When he looks at Stiles, the boy is just smiling like he’s hopelessly in love. “What?”

“I’m not gonna punish you for trying, Peter. You did everything you could, and, even though I know you’re going to give me that ‘have you lost your goddamn mind’ look, you protecting your daughter and Scott? That wasn’t a fuck-up. That’s amazing and selfless, and yes, I know you think being selfless is like the biggest character flaw in the world, but  _ I _ don’t.” Stiles loops his arm in Peter’s and leans his head on his shoulder. “Besides, I can’t complain when I have my snuggle-wolf back. It’s been really lonely here…” 

Stiles’ voice tapers off, and he presses a little closer to Peter, resting his hand on Peter’s stomach. Peter’s heart aches as he wonders how Stiles has been faring all alone in here, no solid sense of time as he waited for Peter to come back. 

Stiles might not be upset with him, but Peter is still a tightly wound ball of rage.

“They’ll figure something out. I mean, Scott’s totally useless without me,” Stiles says, lifting his head with a smirk, “so it’ll probably take a while, but he’ll get there. The thing about your daughter is that she’s kind of great at impatiently kicking his ass when he’s taking too long to do something, and Lydia? Her banshee senses have never steered us wrong. They don’t always make sense at first, but eventually they do.”

“What is it with you teenagers?! Where do you get this undying sense of trust that it’ll all work out?! I used to think it was because you’re too young to know what life is really like, but you’ve dealt with druids making human sacrifices, a hitlist that seemed like it had no end in sight, you—your best friend held Allison while she died. You’ve witnessed more than your fair share of horrors. Just tell me…  _ why?” _

“Aw, I love you too, babe,” Stiles laughs, giving Peter a kiss on the cheek, completely ignoring how amped up he is.

“That was not an answer.”

“You’re not the best at taking your own advice, Peter. Remember when you told me anticipatory anxiety doesn’t help anything? Like yes, I could sit here and imagine all the worst case scenarios, but what good does it do? Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen, but I’ll always go down fighting. It’s not like all this shit doesn’t get to me. You  _ know _ I can fall down a big ass anxiety spiral better than anyone, but in between? I try to remind myself that I’ve gotten through everything you just mentioned, and I survived. And yeah… not  _ all _ of us have survived,” Stiles says, his eyes darkening, “but the alternative is just letting everything crumble around me without trying to help. I can’t do that. I can’t sit by when I could be doing something.”

“Nobility is all fine and dandy until it gets you killed,” Peter counters, but he’s not sure he completely believes that anymore. He’s clinging to old dying principles with one hand while making a lot of questionably altruistic decisions with the other. Whatever… it was all for Stiles, which is actually sort of selfish in its own way… right? 

“Says the man who jumped through a potentially fatal portal for me and then sacrificed himself for Malia and Scott,” Stiles reminds him with a charmingly smug smile.

“Considering I ended up right back here, I wouldn’t say that’s the best argument for—”

“Shhhh!” Stiles stands up, craning his neck to look around the station. “Did you hear that?”

Just as Peter’s about to say “no,” he hears a faint whisper.

_ “Stiles.”  _

“Is that…?” Peter meets his eyes, and Stiles nods.

“Lydia.”

They both start walking toward the sound, but the PA system crackles to life, an announcement of a train arrival. All the people in the station start their trance-like shuffle to the tracks, and suddenly, the mass of bodies is too thick to push through. Peter is shoving people aside, trying to make room for Stiles to get through, and then there’s a gunshot echoing through the room. Stiles and Peter exchange fearful glances. It can’t be the Riders. They would have heard them; they would have felt— 

“Give the boy some room!” The crowd parts, leaving a clear path down the center, and standing at the mouth of the tunnel is none other than Sheriff Stilinski.

“Dad? Dad!” Stiles sprints toward him, enveloping his father in a warm hug, and Peter hangs back. It’s not really a moment for him to intrude on.

“I can’t believe I found you,” the Sheriff says, gripping his son tighter.

“Dad, I can hear Lydia. I think I can get to her. I think she can get us out of here,” Stiles says, pulling back.

“Then you need to get out of here. Don't worry about me,” his father replies, and Stiles shakes his head.

“What? You're kidding, right? You’re coming with me.”

There’s a crackle of electricity, a sound like a severed powerline snaking on the ground, and then the hooves of the Riders’ horses.

“Go. Get help. Find your friends,” the Sheriff says. “We'll find each other again. Something tells me the guy who was ready to die for you will keep you safe until then.” The Sheriff gives Peter a genuine, warm smile. He figures Scott and company filled him in on everything that happened, but it’s still incredibly strange to see Stiles’ father look at him like that. “Get out of here. Both of you. I'll hold them back.”

Stiles looks like he’s ready to argue again, but there’s no time. Peter grabs Stiles’ wrist and pulls him in the direction of Lydia’s voice, the same room where Peter made his exit only a few days ago.

A portal opens, but it’s not the same as the last one. This one is bright and inviting, a soothing white light instead of the ominous, lightning-sizzle green Peter stepped through. Lydia is calling Stiles’ name, telling him to come closer, that he can do it, that he can make it. 

Peter holds Stiles’ hand as they jump through the opening.

When Peter opens his eyes, he’s twisted into an uncomfortable position in the passenger seat of Stiles’ Jeep. Stiles crawls up from the floorboards and into the driver’s seat. The keys are already in the ignition, the same keys Peter gave Malia when he first fell back into Beacon Hills, burned and half-conscious on the ground. Stiles turns the keys, and the headlights flash into the night, the engine rumbling to life.

“Ha!” Stiles exclaims, slapping the dash and turning to smile at Peter. “How’s that for a little blind teenage optimism? Listen to Roscoe purr! I missed you!” Stiles shouts, giving the steering wheel a kiss, and Peter laughs, leaning over to give Stiles his own wet, ardent kiss.

  
  


***

  
  


“‘No one likes a Nazi.’ Bam!” A grinning Scott reenacts Peter punching Garrett Douglas in the face, and although Peter is rolling his eyes, there’s a smile creeping in across those lovely lips. Lips Stiles is having a hard time not kissing right now. He’s not sure where they stand on blatant PDA in front of… well, literally everyone since the McCall house is stuffed to the gills with celebratory pack members and parents. Malia and Kira are hanging out in the corner with Derek. Lydia is standing by the kitchen with Liam and Mason. They all look happy and healthy, and after the hell they’ve been through, it’s wonderful to see. Stiles isn’t sure why they don’t do this more often. Banishing the latest enemy from wherever it came and defending their hometown is the best reason for a party. Soon, there won’t be any more parties. Everyone will be scattered across the country, but he tries not to think about it. “I mean, I didn’t even know he was there, and then…” Scott shakes his head. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” He raises his cup to Peter.

“Just don’t expect a sequel to ‘Peter Hale: Honorary Pack Member.’ My days in the Avengers are over.” Peter raises a cautious eyebrow as he tips his cup against Scott’s. 

Scott toasting to Peter… how the tables have fucking turned in only—well, apparently it’s actually been like six or seven months because time in a weird magical train station is about as stable and linear as a Doctor Who episode, but it  _ feels _ like it was only a few weeks ago that Scott felt betrayed by Stiles’ relationship with Peter. Honestly, everything simultaneously feels like it happened yesterday and a million years ago. Like it’s real life but also an alternate timeline that got lost in the shuffle. It’s been a thoroughly disorienting transition, and Stiles has this sensation of vertigo, like he’s standing on a moving carnival ride, trying desperately to balance while everything is rocking back and forth.

Once they’d diverted the train, and the Wild Hunt fled, taking Garrett Douglas with them, Stiles only had a day to be happy that he was back home surrounded by everyone he loves before he realized he’d missed three-quarters of his senior year. 

Tonight, he feels settled for the first time since everything returned to normal. It helps that he’s a little drunk. Has every adult in the room tacitly agreed to ignore all the sneaky pours the non-wolf teenagers are making into their soda cups (after all, being completely erased from existence has earned them one night of consequence-free drunken revelry, right?) or are they just too drunk and happy to notice? 

Being in a house with all of these people is like falling into the arms of a giant hug on all sides. Total love coverage. Everything is fuzzy and warm and comforting. He hasn’t even let himself get weepy and nostalgic and scared about the future for one second. 

Okay, maybe there were a  _ few _ sentimental seconds, but mostly, he’s kept it together.

It helps that Peter’s arm is draped along the back of the couch behind him, his hand descending to stroke Stiles’ shoulder. Peter is always touching him like that now. They can’t be in a room together without Peter’s fingertips brushing against him in some way. It’s like he’s checking to see if Stiles is still there. Peter won’t say it, but Stiles can tell there’s a bit of lingering trauma about the Wild Hunt. It’s worse than when Peter saw Stiles in danger that time with Brunski. This was a more sinister threat with a boundless reach that still has a hold of Peter. He checks in with Stiles a lot, sending him goodnight and good morning texts, and it makes Stiles’ heart beat faster every time. Scott can tell when he’s gotten a text from Peter. He always comments on Stiles’ goofy lovesick grin.

“...won’t forget what you did, Peter. I want you to know that.” 

Stiles drifts out of his head and back into the conversation to find that his dad is sitting next to Peter, misty-eyed as he pulls Peter into a hug. Peter makes a strangled noise of surprise and turns his head to give Stiles a wide-eyed _ “help me”  _ look. 

Stiles just covers his mouth as he tries not to laugh, his chest shaking with the effort. 

Eventually, Peter gives Stiles’ father a stilted pat on the back, letting out a relieved sigh when the Sheriff finally releases him. 

While his dad is occupied, reminiscing with Scott about all the endless mischievous antics he stumbled upon and tried—mostly unsuccessfully, because Stiles can’t really be reined in—to thwart, Stiles teases Peter. The opportunity is too delicious not to take.

“So, when are you coming over to grill steaks and watch baseball with my dad?”

“Shut up,” Peter mutters.

“Oh, you’re part of the family now, Peter. A bonafide Stilinski. Those hugs—and there will be  _ so _ many more of them, so you better practice not looking like you’re about to throw up—are just the beginning. We’re getting you an ugly Christmas sweater with your name across the chest. You know, the kind with pom poms all over it, maybe one of those trees that actually lights up?”

“Stiles—”

“Look, you have to wear the outfit if you want to be in the family photo, Peter. We can’t have you looking out of place on the laminated Christmas cards.”

“You are an absolute brat, do you know that?”

“And you love it.”

“I think I liked it better when your father was pointing a gun at my head. I’m not good with parents. I am the antithesis of the guy you take home to meet your family.”

“Awww, are you sad that your big, bad, bloodthirsty reputation is ruined? Want me to start spreading rumors about you leaving mutilated corpses in the sewer or something? I’m sure there are crimes we can pin on you. There’s always something maniacal going on here. Don’t worry. I’ll be the only one who knows about your squishy marshmallow center. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Can we get out of here for a while? We haven’t really had a chance to make up for lost time,” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear, his tone low and libidinous, his tongue flicking across Stiles’ earlobe. Stiles shivers, every cell in his body filled with want. He’s only been home for four days, and between school, his friends, his dad, and adjusting back into the swing of everyday life, it’s been a dizzying whirlwind. Every time he tries to get some alone time with Peter, it doesn’t work out.

“Yeah, yes, god—fuck—let’s do that. Um…” Stiles looks over at his dad, chatting away with Scott’s mom and Argent, Isaac tucked into Argent’s side. “Just let me tell him where I’m going? The whole ‘I disappeared overnight and didn’t come back for months’ thing has left him understandably freaked out. I don’t want to slip out and make him worry.”

Peter’s lips twitch like he wants to quibble with that, but he nods.

Stiles slides off the couch and taps his father on the shoulder. 

“Hey, um… is it okay if I go over to Peter’s for a little bit? I won’t stay over if you don’t want me to. Or… you know… whatever you’re okay with,” Stiles says, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck. Sometimes it feels like his life is just a series of awkward moments interspersed with flashes of running for his life. 

“Stiles…” his father says, holding him by the shoulders, “you’re being safe, right?”

“Dad, do we have to do this right now—” At least the room is way too noisy for anyone to hear. There are no less than ten threads of overlapping conversation going on right now, the kind of chaotic din that happens at a party that’s been raging for a few hours. Makes it harder for even the werewolves to focus on individual voices.

“Well, between Peter killing Kate, you getting kidnapped by whatever the hell those things were, and the rest of life just keeping right on, we haven’t really had time to talk about this. So, yes, if you want to go spend the night at your boyfriend’s, I think we need to go over this.”

“Werewolves can’t get diseases. Peter can’t get or give anything to me, and since neither of us can get pregnant, it’s basically the safest sex I can have, okay?” Stiles says, his words coming out in a manic rush. His heart is racing, and he refuses to make eye contact. It’s bad enough to have to talk to his dad about sex, but right here, right now?! He prays he won’t have the supreme misfortune of all chatter in the house suddenly ceasing. If anyone is unlucky enough to get a really embarrassing record scratch moment, it’s Stiles. 

“That’s good to hear. See, was that so hard?” His dad smiles and ruffles his hair.

“Yes! It absolutely was! Let’s never, ever do that again.” Stiles hugs his father, chagrined to see a smirking Isaac looking right at him. Stiles flips him off, and Isaac laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about having that final Douglas showdown be an actual scene, but... it just didn't click for me. In the end, it felt more important to show those scenes where Peter is realizing what he's willing to do for Stiles, everyone around him realizing it too, and also to show the different definitions Stiles and Peter have for failure. I love writing a bit of Peter POV.
> 
> Don't hate me for cutting this off before the smut bahaha. It's just... there's a lot that happens after that, and it made much more sense to pair that smut with the scenes right after it.
> 
> It's looking like you'll get two more chapters. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not Wednesday, it's SMUTSDAY, y'all. Okay... I'll see myself out now lol. Adding a gentle Dom tag because Peter is just a doting, stupidly-in-love motherfucker in this. There are so many pet names being thrown around, it's RIDICULOUS.

They’ve barely made it into the apartment before they’re on each other, Peter shoving Stiles against the door with a growl, kissing and licking along the seam of his lips. It’s like the first time Stiles was here, when he came begging for Peter’s cock, when he could barely get the words out. That seems like a whole lifetime ago.  _ That _ Stiles was tentative and nervous. Unsure of what he wanted, but scared enough of missing out to try his best at seizing the moment. 

Now, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. He’s never been more sure of any _one._ He’s going to crumble into ash if Peter isn’t inside him in the next five minutes. 

“Want you so bad,” Stiles gasps as Peter grips his ass in both hands, pulling Stiles up until he has no choice but to wrap his legs around Peter’s waist and hold on. Peter carries him to bed, and Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of being manhandled like that. It’s the most welcome loss of control, and Stiles mourns all those months they could have been doing this, all that time slipping away like sand through his fingers right when they were both ready to really build something together. Both on the same page for once. 

Fuck Beacon Hills and all its soap opera plot wrenches thrown into the middle of Stiles’ life. Maybe leaving won’t be the worst thing. 

Just as Stiles is balking at that very un-Stiles-like thought, trying to figure out where the hell it came from, his concentration is directed elsewhere, and how could it not be?! Peter is standing next to the bed, slowly taking his clothes off, unveiling one unbelievably gorgeous inch of skin at a time. Where the fuck is Peter getting these reserves of patience? Personally, Stiles is wishing he could dissolve all of his clothes with one snap of a finger and have Peter bending him over in less than a minute’s time. Anything else is completely unreasonable. He wants to be fucked hard and fast. He wants it to hurt. He wants to feel the shape of Peter inside him for days afterward, shifting in his seat and thinking about Peter opening him up while everyone around him has no idea. 

Stiles grabs the hem of his own t-shirt, but Peter slaps his thigh. The sound of it echoes through the room, and the sting spreads across Stiles’ skin like a well-stoked fire, flames licking across every part of him.

God, he’s missed this.

“Did I say you could do that?” Peter challenges, his fingers curling in Stiles’ hair, yanking his head back. Peter’s eyes are white-hot and fierce with control, and Stiles doesn’t have to look down to know his dick is leaking from the sight of it. 

“No—I’m sorry,” Stiles pants, letting his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t look sorry (because he isn’t), a blissful smile spreading across his lips, but he knows Peter doesn’t mind. Peter likes Stiles brazen and willful, and Stiles is dying to lie back and let Peter show him his place.

“I don’t think you are, sweetheart.” How is it that Peter can make that word so gentle, a honey-dipped endearment full of love, or he can make it smolder with lewd promise, a provocative warning in its syllables, like embers that climb to a burning roar? Peter starts to peel Stiles’ clothes off, and Stiles gladly lets it happen, submitting to the way Peter moves his limbs around like a ragdoll, roughly turning Stiles onto his stomach once he’s naked. Peter’s hand lands across the back of Stiles’ thighs and his ass, a few blows in quick succession that have Stiles humping the bed and moaning like an animal in heat. “This isn’t even punishment for you. You’re just a filthy slut who’s enjoying,” Peter’s hand comes down again, “every,” and again, “second. What should I do with you? How are you going to prove how sorry you are?”

Peter licks a long, hot stripe up Stiles’ spine, lapping at the back of his neck, scraping his teeth along Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles is trembling uncontrollably, and he thinks he might cry even though he’s not sure why. Pure happiness? Relief? Unbearable anticipation? All of the above?

“Look at you… you want it so much, you’re shaking.” Peter growls in Stiles’ ear, pushing his face into the sheets, Peter’s breath warm and moist and reminding Stiles of everything he wants. 

God, he wants so many things. 

Wants to choke on Peter’s cock and feel it pulse in his mouth, Peter’s come spurting down his throat. Wants to be tied up and fucked like he only exists for Peter’s pleasure, like he’s just a perfect hole made for Peter’s cock and nothing more. Wants Peter to tell him what a good boy he is, how well he takes it, how he’s the perfect slut for him. 

“What should I do with you, hmm?” Peter asks again, and Stiles knows it’s a trap. He knows he can’t give voice to all the lurid possibilities flickering through his mind. “What do you want?”

“I want,” Stiles licks his lips and takes a breath, choosing his words carefully, “to make you feel good. To give you whatever you want. Anything you want, Peter.  _ Anything. _ I’m yours.”

“Baby… such a good boy for me. You just want to make me happy? Want me to use your tight little body until I’m satisfied?” Peter sucks a bruise on Stiles’ neck, his body folded against Stiles’ back, grinding him into the mattress, his hard, heavy cock pushing his ass cheeks apart. It’s a teasing touch that’s nowhere near enough, but it’s still driving Stiles fucking insane. He wants to be split open on Peter’s dick so badly. 

_ “Yes. _ I’m—please, just fucking use me, Peter.” The heat against his back disappears, and Stiles hears the sound of a belt being pulled out of its loops. 

“Tell me if it’s too tight, okay?” Peter says, the domineering tilt leaving his voice. Peter’s never careless with Stiles’ safety; it’s one of the reasons he trusts him to do these things, although if pressed, Stiles isn’t sure he could explain how he always knew it would be like this. Even when the signs were pointing toward  _ “maybe don’t do this with Peter fucking Hale,” _ Stiles just… knew. He was nervous, sure, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Peter would take care of him that first night he tied Stiles to the bed. He knew it then, and he knows it now. 

Peter pins Stiles’ arms behind his back, and Stiles feels the leather wrapping around his wrists, binding them together snugly but not too painfully. He tests the bonds a bit, thrilled to feel the press of them, the edge of the belt biting into his skin, knowing he can’t get out until Peter decides to set him free. It reminds him of how he used to jab his tongue into wounds in his mouth—a canker sore on the gum, the raw, bitten inside of his cheek—tracing the bumps and divots just to feel the shape of them, a strange zing of reassurance rushing through him like a tranquilizer. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he’s always liked the comfort of a little pain, the tangible evidence that he’s alive and can be marked by everything that happens to him. 

Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulls him into his lap, spreading Stiles’ thighs wide until he’s straddling him. It’s a bit of an awkward, twisted position like this, Stiles’ back to Peter’s chest, but he knows that’s probably the point. His thighs shake with the effort to stay upright, but Peter holds his arm tighter, steadying Stiles’ middle, his other hand giving the makeshift cuffs a tug. Stiles moans, his swollen dick twitching, the tip red and wet. Peter’s hands leisurely explore Stiles, stroking over his belly and his chest, playing with his pert nipples and tickling his ribs just enough to make him squirm, carefully avoiding the place Stiles needs to be touched the most. 

He can’t touch Peter at all; Peter is making sure to hold his bound wrists just far enough away, making it impossible for Stiles’ fingertips to brush against anything other than his own lower back. Peter runs his hand down Stiles’ thigh, his claws popping out to scrape against the delicate skin on the inside. Not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough to leave behind a trail of jagged red lines. 

Stiles whimpers, and Peter laughs.

“Impatient, sweetheart?”

Stiles shakes his head, biting his lip to keep the words from coming out.

“Now now, don’t lie to me. You’re an anxious, greedy slut, I know you are. I can  _ smell _ it. It’s divine.” Peter’s husky whisper makes Stiles whine and grind his ass back against Peter’s dick, trying to make some friction, to get even the smallest bit of relief, but Peter pushes Stiles forward, back onto his stomach, giving his ass two warning swats. “Stop that or I’ll tie your ankles too.” Peter comes to sit at the top of the bed, leaning his back against the headboard. He turns Stiles’ face toward him, making sure he’s watching, and strokes his cock slowly. “Do you want to taste me, baby?”

“Yes, sir, please,” Stiles tries. He’s never called Peter anything while they’ve done this. They never really got around to it. They barely got to explore this dynamic before the Riders came along and put their relationship on pause. Peter smiles, and a warm, tingling sense of pride unspools within Stiles.

“Well, since you’re a good boy who asks so very nicely… come here.” Peter pats his thigh, and Stiles frowns. “You can do it, baby. Don’t you want to make me happy?”

Stiles swallows and looks over his shoulder, trying to decide the best way to do this. With a grunt, he rolls onto his side, and then, tucking his knees toward his chest, he rocks back and forth until he gets enough leverage to wobble to a sitting position, folding his heels under his ass. Once he’s upright, it’s actually not that hard to scoot over on his knees. He’s eager to bend over straight away and lick and suck on Peter like a starving man, but he knows better than that.

“See? You’re doing so well, Stiles. My good boy,” Peter purrs, pushing Stiles’ hair back from his forehead and leaning over to give him a soft kiss. It’s brief, but it holds a tender promise. When Peter pulls away, Stiles can feel the ghost imprint of his lips. “You’re waiting so patiently for my cock.” Peter rubs the back of Stiles’ neck, and a wave of relaxation cascades through his sore muscles. His arms are starting to ache, but it’s the good kind of tension, the kind that makes him feel owned and cared for. “Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetheart. You’re going to bend over my lap and swallow me down as far as you can, and I’m going to fuck your mouth until I come. You are not to suck or lick or do anything at all, and if you do, I’ll stop and I’ll spank you until your ass and your thighs are so red, you can’t sit down. You are only allowed to open your mouth and let me do as I please, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles nods eagerly, and he starts to bend down but pauses halfway.

“Do you need something? It’s okay to tell me what you need, baby,” Peter reassures him, petting his hair.

“Can I… will you kiss me, please?”

“Of course.” Peter lifts Stiles’ chin and gives him a slow, lingering kiss. Stiles sighs happily. “You know how much I love you?”

Stiles nods with a dreamy smile and bends over Peter’s lap, sliding his knees across the sheets until he’s lying more comfortably, his torso resting on Peter’s thigh. He opens his mouth, and Peter places a hand on the back of his head, guiding him down until nearly all of his cock is in Stiles’ mouth. He can smell the subtle musk on Peter’s skin, can feel the head of his cock nudging at the back of his throat. When he makes an experimental swallow, his throat flexing around the length, Peter groans.

“Such a good boy for me, taking it all and waiting for me to fuck your throat. You’re so beautiful like this, Stiles. All flushed and excited and eager to please. You don’t know how much it means to me that I’m the only one who’s ever seen you like this.” Peter wraps his fingers in Stiles’ hair again, pulling him up an inch or two, just enough to give Peter room to start thrusting up into Stiles’ wet heat. Even though Stiles knows it’s coming, the first thrust makes him feel like he’s really choking, his airway abruptly cut off. He relaxes his throat, breathing through his nose and focusing on letting everything go slack, opening himself up for Peter to take. Peter starts thrusting faster, a steady rhythm that draws obscene squelching sounds from Stiles’s throat, spit dribbling down his chin. “Oh fuck—your mouth, sweetheart—you’re doing so well,” Peter gasps, and Stiles loves that about him. Peter’s controlled, yes, but he never hesitates to let Stiles know he’s enjoying himself. He moans and pants and praises, and it makes everything twice as heavenly. 

Tears are springing from Stiles’ eyes now. His face is covered in saliva and tears, and soon Peter’s come will be marking him too. Stiles thinks he loves that idea just as much as Peter does. He’s achingly hard, his balls heavy, everything feverish and demanding to be touched. 

“You love this, don’t you? Love being my toy and getting your pretty mouth fucked?”

Stiles can’t really respond, but he hopes Peter can smell it on him, can sense how every part of him is screaming  _ “yes, yes, keep fucking me, please, I need it, I need you.” _

“I’m going to come, sweetheart. Stay very still for me.” Peter pushes Stiles all the way down and holds his head in place, his hips thrusting up and staying there, Stiles’ lips wrapped around the base of his cock, his nose brushing against Peter’s pubic hair as Peter’s cock jumps inside his mouth, his warm come shooting down his throat. Stiles is so utterly debauched, and Peter is right: he loves feeling this filthy and used. He’s so turned on, he thinks all it would take to make him come is one stroke of Peter’s hand. 

Stiles swallows, but when Peter finally pulls out, there’s a lingering sticky string clinging to the head of his cock. He smears it on Stiles’ lips, and Stiles lets out a grateful moan, his hips rutting against the mattress. He’s been good at holding back, not fucking against the bed while Peter plundered his mouth, but he’s losing every ounce of restraint now. 

“Baby…” Peter whispers as he pulls Stiles into his lap, arranging him so he’s facing Peter this time, his awestruck voice making Stiles’ heart beat faster. “You don’t know what it does to me to see you like this. So messy and wrecked. You’re so lovely, you have no idea.” Peter strokes Stiles’ cheek and swipes his fingers through the mess that clings to Stiles’ wet mouth, his lips puffy and red with use. “I love seeing you covered in my come. I want you to smell like it all the time, want everyone to smell it on you and know what we’ve been up to, that you’re mine. That you’re claimed.”

Peter kisses him, licking away everything that’s painting Stiles’ face, pressing it back into Stiles’ mouth, their tongues colliding as Stiles tastes Peter and Peter tastes himself. It shouldn’t be as blisteringly sexy as it is, and Stiles is pretty sure the whole pack would faint dead away if they knew what he and Peter get up to when they fuck. Honestly, that kind of just makes it hotter.

Peter gently turns Stiles around, undoing the belt and tossing it to the ground, pulling Stiles close and rubbing his wrists and arms, bringing the delicate skin to his mouth, pressing soft kisses into it. 

“You did so well, sweetheart. What do you want now?” Peter asks, nuzzling in Stiles’ neck, his hand traveling down his stomach to wrap around Stiles’ neglected dick.

“Mmm, don’t know… wish I could ride you…” Stiles laments, kissing Peter’s shoulder, the high of being dominated still lingering, making him a bit powerless to do much except mindlessly nibble at Peter’s skin. He’s euphoric and weightless, Peter’s arms the only thing keeping him on the ground.

“I’m sorry. Could wait a few minutes, if you want? But I’m guessing you aren’t much for waiting right now.” 

“Uh-uh.” Stiles shakes his head, curling his fingers around Peter’s hand, forcing Peter’s loose, leisurely grip to tighten around his cock. Peter chuckles and starts properly jerking him off, running a soothing hand up and down his back, Stiles’ legs linked around his waist.

“How about this?” Peter asks, kissing Stiles’ forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips. “Just you and me close like this, where I can hold you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, wrapping his arms around Peter’s shoulders and sealing their mouths. He loves being kissed when he comes, loves panting into Peter’s mouth, sharing breath and warmth, pouring his moans inside Peter until they’re a part of him. Part of  _ them. _

“Do you know how much I love touching you? Making you come?” Peter’s hand speeds up, his wrist twisting on the upstroke, thumb sliding through the slick gathered on the head of Stiles’ cock.

“Peter…” Stiles whines, bucking into his hand, so close he feels like he might split in two, like everything will shatter into a thousand tiny pieces when he finally lets go. “I love you,” he gasps, and when Peter kisses him again, Stiles spurts all over his hand, coming and coming until he thinks it won’t ever stop, like he’ll just keep hitting new peaks he didn’t know were there. He’s shaking and moaning in Peter’s arms, his hand clamped so hard around Peter’s shoulder, it would be bruising him if he weren’t superhuman. 

Peter rubs his back and keeps kissing him everywhere, letting Stiles press against him, more of his mess smearing against them both. He buries his face in Peter’s neck, knowing fatigue will settle over him like a heavy blanket soon.

“Let’s take a bath,” Peter whispers, and Stiles groans his disapproval.

“What happened to always being covered in your come? You marking me like a dog pissing on a tree?”

“How are you already back to being a brat?” Peter asks, giving Stiles’ hair a playful tug. “You’ll still smell like me. You might not notice it, but trust me… it’s there. Come on. Let me wash you, sweetheart.”

Without waiting for Stiles to agree, Peter picks him up, carrying him bridal style to the bathroom. 

The rich bastard somehow has a shower  _ and _ an enviably enormous tub. Stiles has never been in that tub, but he’s had more than a few fantasies about it. Some involved a very naked Peter and some revolved around Stiles having a nice, pampered housewife time alone with wine and bubbles and scented candles. That’s not weird, right? A tub this luxurious  _ demands _ that shit. 

Stiles sits on the edge while Peter draws them a bath, asking for Stiles’ approval on the water temperature. Peter slips in first, and Stiles sits in front of him, settling between his open legs. At first, Peter just massages him, digging his thumbs into Stiles’ shoulders, neck, and back, loosening every muscle with warm water and warm hands.

“Mmm, aftercare is the best,” Stiles says, closing his eyes and letting his chin droop to his chest, breathing out all the tension in his body. 

“And I adore taking care of you.” Peter kisses the back of Stiles’ damp neck. Stiles hears the cap of a bottle opening and then the sound of Peter lathering something between his hands. Peter starts soaping up Stiles’ arms and chest, and Stiles laughs softly. It’s so strange but so right that he can do this with Peter even though he normally has a hard time letting people care for him. With Peter, he doesn’t protest and stamp his feet every step of the way. At most, there’s a muttered half-protest and then he’s melting into Peter’s protective embrace, soaking up all the attention.

Peter washes his hair too, firm fingers rubbing circles into Stiles’ scalp, and it’s possibly even better than an orgasm. 

Well, maybe not  _ that _ good, but, at this very moment, it’s definitely making the Top Five Best Physical Sensations list.

After Peter rinses his hair, his deft fingers wringing out all the shampoo, Stiles leans back, his head falling onto Peter’s shoulder. 

“Can we stay for a bit?” Stiles asks.

“I knew you’d be like this,” Peter says as he kisses Stiles’ temple.

“Like what?”

“Annoyed about getting in but not wanting to get out once you’re here.”

“Yeah, well… you’re predictable too, douche-wolf. Knew you’d be dragging me out of that party as soon as you thought enough time had passed for you to ask. Did you set a timer? Surprised you lasted more than an hour.”

“I would argue that I was very charming and sociable. I did my duty and then some.”

“Yeah, you did.” Stiles gives him an appreciative kiss because Peter  _ was _ a very good sport tonight, enduring the company of every single person in Stiles’ life jam-packed into one evening. That drunken hug from his dad was just one awkward moment in a long succession of them. “Hey… um… I know when we first talked about all the Dom/sub stuff, you said if there was anything I wanted or like, anything I wanted to renegotiate…”

“Yes? I’m listening.” Peter’s hand descends into the water, his fingers skimming along Stiles’ thigh.

“Would you ever choke me? I know you said you wouldn’t, and like… at the time, I didn’t really care because it didn’t seem like something I’d ever want. But now, I keep thinking about what it would feel like to come with your hand around my throat, so… is that something we could discuss again?” Stiles’ cheeks go red as he looks down into the bath, reaching in to lace his fingers with Peter’s.

“As much as that’s a tempting image, I will have to respectfully say no, that’s still a hard limit for me.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I could hurt you.”

“Isn’t that sort of the point?”

“To hurt you in ways that are not too damaging and that both of us enjoy, yes, but choking you is too dangerous. Stiles,  _ regular _ people accidentally hurt each other like that all the time; it’s a very delicate part of your body. If a human can crush another human’s windpipe, what do you think a werewolf could do? Even with verbal check-ins, I think it’s too risky. It would only take a second of miscommunication for me to not realize I’m gripping harder than I should, and that’s not a mistake I can undo.”

“Damn… sorry, I guess I should have thought of that. I—I feel stupid now.” Stiles pushes his hand in and out of the bath, watching the water drip from his fingers. 

“You’re not stupid, Stiles. You can always ask about anything that piques your curiosity. I want us to be open about these things.” Peter strokes Stiles’ stomach, rubbing his nose against his neck. Scenting him seems to calm Peter. It always feels like the most loving nudge, an important signifier of their bond. “I should have explained my reasoning back then, but as you know, I didn’t think we’d be getting this involved.”

“I guess if you were having sex with another werewolf, you could do a lot of things you can’t do with me…” Stiles has never thought about it like that before, but now he suddenly feels very inadequate, like he’s responsible for Peter missing out on a whole host of things. 

“Stiles,” Peter turns Stiles’ face toward him, looking him in the eye, “I’ve told you before, and I will tell you again: I like you the way you are. Yes, I wonder what would have happened if I’d bitten you that night, in the same way I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been home when the fire started or all the more mundane what ifs we replay in our heads when we’re sitting around thinking about our lives like they’re based on big, fated, cosmic shifts instead of a bunch of small, insignificant rolls of the dice that no one will even remember when we’re gone—”

“Wow, you had me for a second there, and then the pessimism cart just careened off the rickety little wooden tracks and into the nihilistic black hole.”

“My  _ point _ is… it’s not important. What’s important is you being here with me now, making me the happiest I’ve ever been.” Peter’s eyes are sparkling with adoration, and Stiles knows he means it. “You would not make me any happier as a werewolf. I fell in love with  _ you, _ Stiles, not some potential fantasy Stiles I could shape into what I want. Besides, I think if we were both wolves, we’d break buildings every time we fuck, and that would get very expensive very quickly. I can only pay off so many landlords before we run out of places to live.”

“I don’t know, breaking buildings with you sounds kinda hot. Very Spike and Buffy.”

“You can’t take the bite just so you can have more violent sex with me, Stiles.”

“Hey, there are worse reasons! Pretty sure Derek’s recruitment policy was like ‘do you wanna stalk around in the shadows and look ominous? Can you look cool in a leather jacket? Okay, you’re in.’” Stiles laughs as he steps out of the tub, raising an eyebrow as Peter starts to towel him off, but lifting his arms to comply anyway. Peter fixes him with sternly narrowed eyes, and Stiles laughs harder. “I’m not seriously thinking about it, Peter. Come on, where’s your sense of humor? You’re talking to the guy with the endless  _ Beautiful Mind- _ esque white board nonsense in his bedroom. You think I’d make a snap decision like that without copious, serious thought? I’m not planning on walking up to Scott anytime soon and saying, ‘hey, I’d really like it if Peter could sexually choke me without fear. Pop those fangs out and get to work, bro.’” 

“Well, now I need you to do that and record the whole thing. That’s a reaction that demands to be documented for posterity.” Peter smiles as he hands Stiles the softest t-shirt and pajama bottoms he’s ever touched. It’s what Stiles imagines an actual cloud would feel like.

“You bought me clothes?” Stiles sighs as he steps into the pajamas, the brushed cotton cool and comfy against his clean skin.

“You think I haven’t been planning our first night together since the moment the Wild Hunt officially left Beacon Hills? Wanted everything to be perfect.” Peter wraps his arms around Stiles, kissing his shoulder as he hugs him close, and Stiles wishes he could just go through life like this, always safely tucked in Peter’s embrace. “I’m going to cook for us now. You can keep me company, but feel free to go lie down if you want to. I’ll come get you when it’s ready, okay?”

Stiles can’t stop fucking smiling. He curls under a blanket on Peter’s couch, pulling the fabric up to his chin, and dozes off, feeling like the luckiest person on Earth.

  
  


***

  
  


“Oh my gggooooddd, I don’t—these are scrambled eggs? Everything I’ve eaten before that called itself scrambled eggs was a fucking sham.” Stiles is seated at the kitchen island, moaning around a creamy mouthful, following it up with a perfectly crisp slice of bacon. He keeps rotating between everything, never sure which dish he wants to taste more. The Nutella strawberry crepes are to fucking die for, but this bacon is just like the scrambled eggs: the inferior cuts of meat he’s had before were clearly just masquerading as bacon because this is the stuff foodgasms are made of. Is this what being rich is like? Is everything Stiles has ever tasted just a pale imitation of the real thing he can’t afford?

“It’s the French scrambled egg method, which is the only proper way to do it. Slowly over a very low temperature. The cream and the butter doesn’t hurt either. Not something I’d have all the time, but it seemed like a good choice for tonight.” Peter runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair and just watches him eat. It would be sort of creepy if it weren’t for the fact that Stiles loves Peter’s creepy attentiveness. Providing for Stiles seems to satisfy Peter immensely, like nothing gives him greater pleasure than watching Stiles enjoy himself and knowing he’s the cause. Stiles loves it. Stiles can relate.

“Please cook for me all the time? Like, not just in an aftercare situation. I’m demanding this treatment every day for the rest of our lives.” Stiles blushes as he realizes what he’s saying. He doesn’t  _ really _ mean it like that. It’s just a figure of speech, right? Stiles lets out a long exhale when Peter chuckles instead of zeroing in on that loaded comment.

“Gladly.” 

As Stiles finishes eating, his classic overthinking kicks into high gear. Now that he’s inadvertently brought up the future, he can’t help but ponder what it’ll look like. Why can’t he just be a normal fucking person and enjoy this summer, even for one damn week, before he starts spiraling about what happens next?

“Might be uh… kind of hard once I move into the dorms at UCLA though. I mean, I don’t—I don’t know what you…” Stiles trails off, not sure what it is he wants to say to Peter. Does he want to ask him to move closer? To find out how often he could visit? To ask if Peter already has plans?   


“Are you sure you want to talk about this now?” Peter takes a sip of his wine, his eyes maddeningly unreadable. Sometimes Stiles wishes he could smell chemosignals too. 

“No… yes… maybe?”

“I think that uncertainty is a sign we should put this conversation on pause. Let’s just enjoy tonight without worrying about tomorrow.” Peter kisses Stiles and takes his plate, rinsing it off in the sink. 

“You’re just gonna leave it there? You’re not going to launch into anal retentive cleaning mode? You really are making exceptions tonight,” Stiles teases, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Brat.”

“You know it just sounds like a term of endearment when you say it, right?”

  
  


***

  
  


They’re snuggling on the couch, watching  _ The Empire Strikes Back. _ Peter is really letting tonight be Stiles’ night. For the most part, it’s giving him a full body elation, like nothing can reach in a meddlesome finger and taint his happiness, but then… Stiles is Stiles. Nothing else  _ needs _ to reach in and burst his blissful bubble because he can do that all by himself.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Peter asks, pausing the movie and turning to Stiles with concerned, expectant eyes.

“I’m sitting here watching one of my favorite movies with one of my favorite people,” Stiles offers, but Peter’s eyes rake up and down him, a twitch of disbelief in his chiseled jaw.

“You keep fidgeting and sighing, and even if I weren’t particularly observant, I’d still notice the stench of anxiety.”

_ “Stench? _ A little harsh, man. Sorry that I  _ stink.”  _ Stiles crosses his arms with a grunt.

“Not what I meant, and you know it. I just want to know what’s wrong.” Peter rubs Stiles’ arm, and Stiles relaxes a little.

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it tonight, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About what happens after the summer?”

“Yeah… I mean, aren’t you thinking about it too? You’re a planner, like me. You planned this whole night, surely you were thinking about whether or not we’d get  _ more _ nights like this after I go to school?”

“Of course.” Peter’s blue eyes turn mournful, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that.

“So… ease my mind a little? Tell me what you’ve been thinking?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“What?! Why? Now is not the time to pull your cryptic Hale shit.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Peter says the words slowly, and Stiles knows that, composed as he might look, that’s a sign that Peter is hurtling toward impatience. 

“Then what  _ are _ you doing? Enlighten me.”

“I’m trying to have a nice evening with you before all the complications set in, but apparently, you’re determined to sabotage that.”

“I’m not sabotaging! You think I’m doing this on purpose? You think I  _ like _ that I can’t make my brain shut up and just chill for a whole night? Honestly, you should be honored that you got my brain to stay quiet for as many hours as you did. I wasn’t thinking about this while we fucked or while we took a bath or while I took a couch nap or while you fed me—”

“I know, I know,” Peter says, his voice softening as he takes Stiles’ hands in his. “I didn’t mean for that to come out accusatory. I’m just really not eager to have this conversation.”

“Why? You’re—you’re kind of worrying me, Peter.” Stiles waits for him to chime in, but Peter doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Stiles in that unnerving way of his, the kind that always makes Stiles feel like Peter is probing the very depths of his mind. “Can you just tell me what—”

“I don’t want you to go to college here. I want you to leave this ridiculously cursed town with me. Preferably, we’d flee to Europe to start with, but I’m amenable to wherever you want to go. I want our passports to have more stamps than the post office. I want to take you everywhere and show you  _ everything. _ I want your life to be as bursting with possibilities and experiences as you deserve, and I want to be the one to give you that.” Peter says it quickly and forcefully, like the words have been perched on his tongue for days, precisely aimed arrows of intent ready to fire. He’s thought about this, alright. He’s thought about it more than Stiles could have anticipated.

“Wow… that’s… wow.” Stiles throws his head back against the couch, at a complete loss for words.

“Now you see why I didn’t want to launch into this discussion yet.”

“We just figured out we want to be together. We just got to the point where my dad is okay with us, and now you want me to drop out of school and follow you halfway across the world?” 

“And apparently, we’re having this conversation whether or not I’m ready for it.” Peter turns the TV off and walks over to the kitchen, opening a decanter of whiskey (Stiles resists the urge to snark on the pretentious fucker for having decanters) and pouring some into two tumblers. When Stiles walks over, he hands him one. “I think we’re both going to need this.” Stiles takes a sip, and Peter does too, never taking his eyes off Stiles. Stiles feels like they just entered a boardroom and sat down at opposite ends of one of those enormous, intimidating tables to enter contract negotiations. “Supernatural creatures don’t  _ have _ to live at a nexus of activity like this. In fact, most sane people prefer not to. This place is a supernatural convergence of insanity and fatal risk. You are the only reason I have left to stay here—” 

“Then come live in LA! It’s hours away from here. Why are you talking like I’m staying right the fuck here?” 

“Because you  _ will _ be, Stiles. You’ll be back here all the time. Scott will only have to say the word to make you come running back. Stiles, this town almost erased you from existence. Living anywhere close enough for Beacon Hills to touch you is like that moment in the  _ Wizard of Oz _ where all the signs say ‘turn back now, this means you.’ People are meant to leave their home, it’s the natural cycle of graduating from your formative years and falling into something new, being a new person, finding a new home, one you make on your own. But for you? I’d say it’s less of a rite of passage and more of a necessity if you want to live to  _ see _ adulthood.” 

“Dude, you’re making a lot of assumptions, and I really don’t appreciate it. You have no idea what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll love college, and I’ll barely be back here. Neither of us know what’s going to happen.” 

“Maybe you’re right, but personally? I don’t want to bank on that. I’m a big fan of running. Getting separation from things makes a world of difference. This place will literally kill you, and you’ll just let it because you’re so concerned with virtue above all else, but you’re forgetting something, Stiles. Saints? Do you know how they reach sainthood? By  _ dying. _ You think your friends and the lives of the people you protect are worth that, and I… if the compromise you need from me is to stop using murder to solve conflict than I need  _ you _ to stop stepping in the line of fire all the time. I need you to sometimes just…  _ let _ the storm blow over without wading into the eye. Everything we went through with the Wild Hunt? It made me realize I can’t spend our life together watching you rush headlong into battles that will claim your life eventually. It’s not a matter of  _ if, _ Stiles. It’s a matter of when. That’s just probability.” Peter grips the edge of the island, his voice shaking, and when he looks at Stiles again, there’s confusion written in his squinting eyes. “What? Why are you giving me the sad puppy look?” 

“Because you’re crying.” 

“What? No, I’m not,” Peter protests with a vehement shake of his head, but Stiles reaches up to wipe a tear from his cheek, holding out his fingers to show Peter the evidence. He’s not crying the way Stiles does. It’s not the result of a heavy grief, no bone-deep sorrow in his blue eyes. To Stiles, it looks like something closer to anger, a sense of furious injustice rising in Peter when he thinks about losing Stiles. 

“Yes, you are, Peter.” Stiles sighs, takes another drink of whiskey. It burns and makes his lips pucker, but it’s also exactly what he needs. Liquid courage. “Obviously, you feel… really fucking raw about this, and I don’t want to piss you off but… you’re asking a lot of me and I don’t know how much of it is actually about me and how much of it is just about what you want. About what you’re afraid of.”

Peter laughs bitterly, taking a generous gulp of whiskey.

“Stiles, I nearly died for you, and I did it happily. I didn’t think about it; I didn’t debate; I just jumped because I love you. When is it your turn to jump?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is this an ultimatum? So you’ve decided that me immediately going along with whatever you want is how I prove I really love you? Pardon my French, but that’s horse shit. And me not agreeing to this super out-of-the-blue plan right away? It doesn’t have anything to do with you. I had a plan for my life this year, and I missed out on it because I got taken by some fucking creatures with magical eraser guns. I was supposed to have time to spend with everyone before I left, time to get ready for the next step of my life, time to start feeling  _ okay _ about it, and now it’s like—it’s just over!” Stiles throws up his hands. “It’s done. I wasn’t ready for that, you know? I was supposed to have more time.” 

“I know. I understand being robbed of time better than anyone,” Peter says, his voice more tender now. “I’m a selfish, possessive man, and sometimes I want you all to myself, preferably far away from the place that keeps trying to kill us both. I want you safe, and I think I’m the best person to do that.”

“I know you are, and most of the time I find that really hot even though I should probably have my head examined. I love that you’re a possessive bastard, but you also can’t knock me out with your club and carry me back to your cave when you don’t get your way. And, like, maybe remember that you like me  _ because _ I’m an obstinate fucker who won’t let anyone manipulate me?”

“My love for you may be my redeeming quality in the eyes of all your little savior friends, but I’m still an asshole, Stiles. That hasn’t entirely changed, and I don’t think it ever will.”

“Yeah, but you’re  _ my _ asshole,” Stiles says, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “That… did not come out right.” He leans across the island and kisses Peter. “So… now that we’ve both chilled out a little, let’s talk about this for real. What would I do in this hypothetical nomadic life?” 

“Anything you wanted. If you still want to go to college, then we’ll make that happen. Do you think there isn’t a long Hale history of forging documents to get by? I’m filthy rich and cunning as they come, Stiles, and so are you. Do you want to go to Oxford? Study at the Sorbonne? Be my kept man and just look pretty and laze about all day, being fucked and pampered and cared for? It doesn’t matter. I will give you whatever you want. Just… please think about it? You’re eighteen. The world should be your fucking oyster, but you can’t have that. Not here,” Peter sweeps his arm around the room, motioning toward the window and the town that lies outside its glass, “not living next door to the town where you were born. Do you really want to get on the conveyor belt right away? College and jobs and picket fences and the whole long line of expectations, prepackaged goals you’re supposed to buy because people said so? Planning your life because you think it’s what you’re  _ supposed _ to do? You’re talking about how fast everything feels, how you didn’t have time to get ready for this step… Isn’t what I’m offering you a way to do that? To slow everything down and just enjoy yourself for a while?”

Stiles rotates his glass along the countertop, lightly flicking the side of it and making the crystal ring.

“Some of us aren’t loaded, Peter. Going to a college where I got scholarships… majoring in something useful so I can get a job, this  _ is _ shit I have to think about. I do need to get on the conveyor belt.”

“But I’m telling you that you don’t have to anymore. I’ll take care of you.”

“And what if we break up? What if I spend all this time fucking you around Europe, being fancy rich boyfriends, and then a few years later, I’m alone and years behind in life? Then what?” It’s a beautiful, fantastical promise that Peter is offering, the kind dreams are made of, but that’s just the thing. It sounds too  _ much _ like a dream for Stiles to buy it. He’s too pragmatic not to be worried about the potential fallout.

“That won’t happen because there’s not going to be a breakup.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I wish you were as certain about me as I am about you.”

“That’s not…” That really fucking stings, makes Stiles feel like a piece of shit, but he can tell by the way Peter’s whole body is drooping that he didn’t mean to hurt Stiles. 

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I know I’m asking a lot, and I know I’m quite a bit older than you. I’ve had more time to think about what I want from life. Forgive me for being a bit intense about all this, but I think you know by now that I’m somewhat of an extremist.”

“Understatement of the century. Fuck… relationships, am I right?” Stiles rubs his temples and lets out a tired laugh.

“Now you can see why I’ve been avoiding them for so long,” Peter says with a wink and a smile, and they both laugh. 

“Honestly, it sounds amazing, Peter. In theory, anyway. I do need a fucking break. If I’m being honest… the thought of plunging right into college is making my head spin. Usually I like to stay busy, you know? I don’t do well with sitting the fuck around. Makes everything up here go nuts,” Stiles points to his forehead, “but I don’t know if that’s gonna be true this time. I need to catch the fuck up with the life that kept marching on without me before I make plans to march on without it. Give me some time to think about this?”

“Take your time. I’m not trying to force you into a decision too fast. I just… I want to hold onto you tight enough that nothing can ever take you away again. Does that make sense or do you think I’m completely unhinged?”

“Oh, I definitely think you’re unhinged, but so am I. We’re just two unhinged, unstable idiots in love.” Stiles shrugs with a smile, and Peter walks around to his side of the island, folding his arms around Stiles.

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“Everything… you’ve done so much, Peter.” Stiles burrows in Peter’s chest, his arms tight around his lower back. “Just know that you  _ are _ in any future plans I make. I’m not doing anything without taking you along for the ride. Or you taking me along for the ride, whichever it is. I’m not sure what I want that to look like yet, but, whatever it ends up being, it’ll be  _ us. _ I promise. We’ve been through too much shit not to get our happy ending.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Peter kisses the top of Stiles’ head. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“I love you, Peter.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“Back to snuggling? I promise to shut the fuck up and just relax this time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” Peter leads Stiles by the hand back to the couch, and Stiles makes good on his promise, settling into Peter’s arms like it’s the only place he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We only have one more chapter to go, friends! Are you getting emotional? Because I'm getting emotional. 
> 
> Next week, I'm cooking an overly ambitious turkey dinner that takes multiple days (just for me and my partner that I've been quarantining with, don't worry, I'm a Safety First Bitch) so I *might* not get the chapter posted until the week after next. Apologies in advance, if that ends up being the case.
> 
> I hope this is shaping up to be a satisfying conclusion for you! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeellllloooo, everyone. Here it is, the final chapter! I'll save any of my characteristic rambles for the end notes haha.

“I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how beautiful this place is. Half the time we were up here, we were planning pack stuff or running for our lives.” Stiles plucks a fry from the grease-soaked paper bag next to him and leans back on the hood of his car, gazing into the beautiful tree-lined ravine below them, the buildings of Beacon Hills dotting the landscape just beyond it. From this distance, the town looks like a model, like Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood of Make-Believe. It’s easy to pretend the flaws aren’t real because you can’t see them from this height. Stiles thinks a lot of things in life are like that.

“Yeah… it’s kinda nice, huh?” Scott agrees with a grin, leaning back next to Stiles.

Neither of them say anything for a while, but it’s a peaceful silence. They’re two people who have known each other forever, comfortable enough to just sit and enjoy the quiet, surrounded by the sounds of birds and the wind rustling through the trees. 

“Stiles?” Scott pipes up, and it takes Stiles a second to snap out of his reverie. 

“Yeah? What’s up?"

“When we all froze ourselves to unlock our memories of you, I—do you remember what happened at the Motel Glen Capri?” Scott bites his lip rather shyly, and Stiles sits up straighter.

“Of course, man. How could I forget that?” 

“That was the memory that made it all come back for me, that made  _ you _ come back. You telling me we were brothers, that I wasn’t nobody, that I wasn’t worthless…” Scott looks down at his lap, running a hand through his hair, and Stiles gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve just been thinking a lot like… right before you got taken, you and I weren’t as close as we’d been, you know? And I think a lot of that is my fault. You told Lydia and Malia about Peter. Maybe you would have told me too if you felt like you could. I was so pissed off at you for keeping it from me that I didn’t stop to think about why you did it. I didn’t even ask you the most important question; I didn’t ask if he made you happy. I should have cared about that the most.”

“To be fair, I didn’t really  _ tell _ them. It was more like they both shook me and said, ‘did you think we didn’t know, asshole? Out with it.’”

“Yeeeaahh, they always know things before I do. Sorry I’m so slow to get it. Looking back, I think maybe I did know. I just didn’t want to?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s why we love you, Scotty. You’re the pure of heart, dumb of ass alpha.”

“Shut up.” Scott laughs and playfully slaps Stiles’ arm. “Seriously though, I’m sorry I blew up about it when I found out. Seeing everything he did for you? He was like… nothing could have stopped him. He was willing to do whatever it took to get you home. I’m glad you’re dating someone who feels that way about you.”

“I mean, your introduction to our relationship was kind of, uh, under the worst circumstances possible? So I get it. Peter is Peter. He’s an acquired taste.” 

“Definitely.” Scott laughs again, closing his eyes as he leans against the windshield, and Stiles figures this is the best time to ask. He’s nervous as hell, but he needs advice and he misses talking to Scott about these things.

“Hey, soooo… I was going to ask Lydia about this, and maybe I still will, but I wanna know what you think too…” Stiles rubs the back of his neck and tries to focus on the gorgeous view in front of them, the sounds that were soothing only a minute ago.

“Sounds serious.” Scott opens his eyes and sits up.

“Yeah, it kind of is. So, um, Peter basically asked me to run away to Europe with him? He wants to give me a fancy life and pay for everything and keep me safe, and it’s a  _ lot _ to process. I have no fucking idea what I want to do, and I can’t imagine being that far away from you and my dad. I mean, what if something happens?”

“Damn, that’s a lot.” Scott eats a fry, chewing thoughtfully and shaking his head. “But it’s also  _ so _ fucking Peter, isn’t it?”

“Right? Dude doesn’t do anything half-assed. It’s all in, all the time. So… thoughts?” Stiles tugs at a loose thread on the cuff of his flannel shirt, and everything goes quiet for a minute.

“Stiles, remember when I told you Beacon Hills doesn’t need us?” Scott finally says. “I know we just went through something huge, but we’re not the only ones who know how to protect people. Mason and Liam, they’re the new guard, and they have Derek and Argent and me to help. I know it’s hard to let go, but maybe it’s time. Maybe what happened with the Wild Hunt is less of a reason to stick around and more of a reason to get out and see what else your life could be away from all this. I don’t think worrying about what’s going to happen here should be one of the reasons for you to stay.”

“You know, you and Peter have more in common than you think.”

“He told you the same thing?”

“Yep. Thinks I have a savior complex, that I risk my life too much, and I need to slow down or I’m—or I won’t be around to protect anyone anymore.”

“He kind of has a point.” Scott shifts around on the hood, crossing his legs and facing Stiles. “Stiles, your friendship is maybe the most important relationship I’ve ever had. That I ever  _ will _ have. There are a million things I couldn’t have done without you, but… you’re not obligated to stay here for the rest of your life and keep risking everything. It’s not selfish to go off and do something else for a while. I mean, you’ve said the same thing to me before. Maybe take your own advice? Peter is… I’ll never understand him like you do, but I  _ do _ trust that he loves you. And honestly? I’m kinda jealous. It sounds awesome, getting to run around the world and see everything. You deserve that, man. You do everything for everyone all the time. Maybe it’s time you have something all to yourself, just like you said when I first found out about Peter.” 

“I just feel like I’d never stop worrying about you and everyone else I’m leaving behind. Doesn’t matter how irrational it is, if something goes down while I’m gone, I’ll be telling myself it happened because I wasn’t there to stop it. That it was my fault for not being there to protect your dumb ass.” Stiles draws his knees up, slinging his arms around his legs, resting his chin on top of one knee.

“I mean, you’re supposed to go to UCLA, right? So even if you don’t leave with Peter, you’ll still be somewhere else.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. LA’s just a drive away. That’s one of the reasons I picked it. If something  _ really _ serious happens, I’m one phone call away and ooohhhh my god, that arrogant bastard is right.” Stiles groans and runs a hand down his face. “I  _ am _ trying to leave but  _ not _ really leave by going there. Fuck—he really knows me, doesn’t he?”

“I think he does. Sucks when someone’s always calling you on your shit, huh? Now you know what it’s like to be around you all the time.” Scott grins and butts his shoulder against Stiles.

“Yeah yeah, trust me. I know.”

“Look, you’re right. You  _ are _ going to go crazy worrying about everyone, but I’m pretty sure that kind of thing fades with time. It’ll be hard at first, but aren’t all the biggest risks we take like that? Doesn’t it sound kinda nice to have a rich guy take care of you and buy you all the best food and see all the coolest cities in the world?” 

“Yeah… it does. Maybe I’m a lazy asshole, but being Peter’s kept man while he feeds me French cheese and wine sounds wwaaayyy better than going into debt to get a degree that will probably do fuck all for my future.” Stiles plucks a stray twig from the windshield and tosses it into the ravine. The thing about college is that it’s always felt like a necessary evil, but moving from one financial worry to the next isn’t all that appealing. He’s never been sure it would be worth it, but it’s always been the only option. The One True Decision for the Future as presented by everyone. He’s never had a chance to imagine what life could look like if he didn’t have to scramble up the rungs of the ladder that’s been placed in front of him. Peter’s giving him the opportunity to manifest something else entirely, to climb in directions he didn’t think he’d ever be fortunate enough to experience.

“It does,” Scott agrees. “It’s the kind of once in a lifetime thing that doesn’t happen to, like,  _ anyone.  _ If you’re not sure, why don’t you do that thing where you put off college for a year?”

“You mean defer and take a gap year?”

“Yeah! That way you can still come back and go to UCLA if you want. And if you don’t come back, that’s fine too, but at least you’d have the option.”

“Scotty, that is fucking genius.” Stiles smiles and pats him on the back. “I didn’t even think about that. Gap years are usually reserved for, like, trust fund kids. The kind who can actually afford it.”

“If your rich boyfriend is going to pay for everything, I guess you kind of are one of those kids now?”

“Bite your tongue. That makes me sound like such a douchebag.”

“A fucking lucky douchebag,” Scott corrects. “Promise me one thing?”

“Anything.” 

“Don’t pull out the crime boards and make a pro/con list.”

“Hey, do not mock the pro/con list. What’s good enough for Rory Gilmore is good enough for Stiles Stilinski.”

“I’m just saying, talk to me, talk to Lydia, Malia, whoever you want, but in the end? Don’t make the decision based on practical shit. Make it based on how you feel. That’s how it should be.”

“Yeah… I think you’re right.”

“You’re totally going to say yes,” Scott says with a knowing smirk.

“Maaayyybbeee,” Stiles replies with a coy smile and a shrug.

“Dude, you love him so much. You’re gonna say yes.”

“Okay, fuck it, maybe I am. Now how the hell do I tell my dad?”

“Ugh, you’re on your own with that one,” Scott says, sucking in a harsh breath.

“No chance you’ll do it for me?” 

“Nope.”

“Come ooonnn, maybe if we dress you in my clothes, he won’t even be able to tell the difference. He did once say you were the son he should have had.”

“How about this… I’ll be waiting outside to drive you away if things get messy and you need a breather.”

“I’m really going to miss you, man.” Stiles gives Scott a sad, wistful smile. He doesn’t know what his life will look like without Scott in it. It’s so unfathomable to even picture it.

“I’m going to miss you too, but you know you can call me any day, anytime, right? I’m always going to be here for you, Stiles.” Scott hauls him in for a hug.

“You’re going to regret telling me that when I call you at six in the morning your time while I’m drunk as fuck in Paris.” Stiles hugs him tighter, smiling when he feels Scott’s rumbling laugh.

***

“Okay, I have conditions,” Stiles says, placing his elbows on the kitchen island and steepling his fingers.

“I figured you would,” Peter replies with an affirming nod.

“First off, I’m deferring UCLA admission for a year in case I still want to come back. Agreeing to a whole life is too much, but agreeing to a year and then getting to reevaluate everything? I can do that. That makes me feel more solid.”

“That makes sense. Deferring for a year is a more than reasonable compromise.”

“It was Scott’s idea, actually, so be sure to thank him for it the next time you see him.” Stiles winks, unable to resist letting Peter know that. Peter rolls his eyes.

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day, etc. What are your other conditions, baby?”

Stiles blushes. Will he ever stop feeling warm and gooey inside when Peter calls him pet names?

“I like you taking care of me, but being independent is important to me too. We have to have a balance. I have to have my own life outside of you, whether that’s me going to school or turning into a weird crafting old lady who sells homemade baskets that look like baby animals on Etsy or becoming a cheesemonger or whatever. I can’t be sunbathing nude and eating figs in Tuscany forever—”

“I beg to differ,” Peter chimes in with a salacious smile. Judging by the shameless way Peter’s undressing him with his eyes, he’s probably fantasizing about keeping Stiles naked and freshly fucked for days on end. Stiles is so fucking game for that.

“Hey, I’m not saying I don’t want to do that. I absolutely do, and that fantasy you had of fucking me all over the French countryside? We’re making that a reality. I just—I can’t be idle  _ forever. _ That’s all I’m saying. Eventually, Languid European Man of Leisure Stiles is going to revert right back to Tensely Coiled Over a Laptop Until the Sun Comes Up Stiles.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Peter says with a smile, covering Stiles’ hands with his own. “I’m only hoping to instill some periods of relaxation in between the jittery Albert Brooks stretches.”

“Hey! I am not—okay, maybe there’s a little Aaron Altman in there,” Stiles admits, smiling back at Peter. 

“Anything else?”

“Yeah…” Stiles runs a nervous hand through his hair because he’s not sure how Peter’s going to feel about this one or even if it’s his place to bring it up. It’s not a condition, exactly. If Peter doesn’t agree to it, that’s totally within his right. It’s more of a gentle suggestion that Stiles thinks Peter needs to hear, one that probably no one else in his life will have the balls or the emotional acuity to mention to him. “I think you’re going to regret leaving Beacon Hills without talking to Malia. Let her know you’re leaving, and maybe think about offering to fly her out to visit sometime.”

“I don’t think she wants to hear from me,” Peter says, the corners of his mouth tightening. 

“You don’t know that, and even if she does tell you to fuck off? It’ll still mean something that you tried. You won’t have to wonder what would have happened. Sometimes it’s more about making the gesture than knowing it’s going to be successful. I think she’d like to know you’re thinking about her being in your future,” Stiles points out, and when Peter opens his mouth, Stiles holds up a hand. “Don’t even bother saying you’re not because I know that’s bullshit. You’re both curious about each other, but you’re both stubborn as fuck too. It’s like trying to force two bulls together in a head-on collision and hoping their horns don’t get tangled, but I think you should try.” To Stiles’ surprise, Peter just starts laughing. “What the hell is so funny?”

“I’m just thinking about how you are the only one who can get away with talking to me like this, and with you, it… it doesn’t even feel like I’m relinquishing a part of myself. It just feels…”

“Right?” Stiles supplies.

“Yes,” Peter whispers, bringing Stiles’ hand to his mouth and tenderly kissing his knuckles. “Everything has always felt right with you. Even when it’s hard, it’s not really. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do.” Stiles nods and leans over to kiss Peter. “Obstacles aren’t shit when you know the prize is worth it. You just jump over them and don’t look back.”

“You’re perfect, Stiles Stilinski.” Peter rubs his cheek against Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply.

“What do you smell?”

“Salt… rain… sweat… that sweetness that’s always there no matter what you’re feeling. It’s a background note when you’re anxious or angry or sad, but it’s strong and exquisite when you’re content. God, I don’t know how to describe it to you… It defies words. There’s no comparison that does it justice.” Peter starts mouthing at Stiles’ neck, drawing a needy gasp from Stiles’ mouth. “Mmm, and when you’re aroused, your scent fills the room. It’s like a drug, Stiles. It wraps around me until I’m filled with nothing but you. Do you want me to fuck you right now?”

“Nnngghhh, yeah, but I—” Stiles is cut off by Peter’s beautiful mouth on his. His cock is filling out in record time, but he came here with a very pertinent agenda, dammit. Reluctantly, Stiles pulls back. “No distracting me! I have one last thing. Like the Malia stuff, it’s not a condition exactly. More of a hopeful request.”

“Go ahead,” Peter says, withdrawing and sitting back in his chair.

“My first instinct is to tell my dad about all this by myself, but the more I think about it, the more I think we should do it together. And soon! Let’s just capitalize on this nice ‘you helped save my son’s life’ afterglow and get it over with while he’s still all huggy and sentimental. We’ll have a nice dinner at my house; he’ll see us together, the way you are with me, the way I am with you. We can answer any questions he has right then and there, and if he’s pissed about it? He has time to get used to the idea before the summer’s over. I feel like putting it off would be a mistake and make any blowback ten times worse.”

“Why do I feel like we’re back in Victorian times, and I’m asking your father for your hand in marriage?” Peter crosses his arms and purses his lips.

“Sadly, my dowry is all gone. Went to utility bills and mortgage payments, and I don’t think we have any goats or farmland to offer you to sweeten the pot, either.”

“Such a shame. I was counting on those goats. We can’t very well make goat cheese without goat’s milk, and that was going to be our livelihood.”

“Okay, serious face now. We're not actually _asking_ because we're not in a Jane Austen novel. We're just telling him. Will you do that with me? Is that stupid? I totally understand if you don’t want to. I’m just nervous and want you there—”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t be by your side when you tell him. Oddly, I think you’re right; it might go better if it’s coming from both of us.”

“Right? Hearing directly from you that you’ve, you know,  _ thought _ about this and what it means… I don’t know, I think it’s important.” 

“Can we go lie down in a bed now instead of sitting across from each other like divorce lawyers?”

“Yes! Snuggle me, please.” Stiles stands up, and Peter follows suit, taking Stiles’ hand as they walk to the bedroom. They both strip down and slip under the covers, Stiles the little spoon to Peter’s big spoon. “What about you?”

“Hmm?” Peter kisses Stiles’ bare shoulder, his hand stroking across Stiles’ stomach.

“What are your terms? What do you want?"

“I just want you, Stiles. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Peter whispers in his ear, and Stiles is so fucking in love, he doesn’t know how his heart contains it all.

“How long until we’re so disgustingly cute together, we make everyone vomit?” Stiles remarks with a laugh.

“I think we’re already there, baby.” 

“Cuteness aside, are you  _ sure _ there isn’t anything you want to say? Anything that’s bothering you?”

Peter lets out a long exhale, fingers skating up and down Stiles’ chest.

“You know there might come a point where I’m faced with a decision where I have to protect you the way I felt I had to with Kate. Or to defend myself.”

“I know.” Stiles turns around until he’s facing Peter. “The night the Riders took you? When you called me? I meant everything I said about feeling like… sometimes it’s just what has to happen. Hopefully, no one is going to chase our asses with pitchforks and torches in Europe—”

“Considering we’re not living in a medieval fairytale, I’d say the likelihood of pitchforks and torches is pretty low.”

“I was painting a picture! It’s way better imagery than a gun. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that, hopefully, like we talked about, we won’t be dealing with people constantly trying to kill us anymore. But if we run into something? You’ll do what you have to, and I won’t hold it against you. That’s what you’re worried about, right?” Stiles strokes Peter’s cheek, and Peter covers Stiles’ hand with his own. Peter nods and kisses Stiles’ palm. “Well, stop worrying because I’m not going anywhere. Doesn’t matter what you do; I like  _ all _ of you. Also, I still think it’s super hot when you threaten to lay waste to anyone who ever tries to hurt me. That hasn’t changed. My dick is like granite when I think about it because apparently I’m a bit fucked up.”

“You are the perfect amount of fucked up,” Peter replies with a soft laugh, sliding onto his back and pulling Stiles on top of him. Stiles presses his ear to Peter’s chest, listening to the strong, steady rhythm of his heart.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

“We are absolutely doing this, Stiles.”

“God, Peter I—thank you for being a sexy, arrogant werewolf who knows what he wants and fucking goes for it even if it’s literally gonna burn him alive.”

“You’re pretty good at being recklessly brave too.”   


“I don’t know.” Stiles shrugs.

“You did stalk me on the internet until you found my address, drove over here, and demanded I take your virginity.”

“I also made copies of the keys to your apartment.”

“What?!”

“Hey, I have keys to everyone’s place! Scott’s house, the Sheriff’s station, the animal clinic.”

“Like I said… you are the perfect amount of fucked up, my beautiful, devious boy.”

Stiles closes his eyes and smiles as he remembers a headstrong wolf who insisted he didn’t want a relationship. Stiles thinks a part of him always knew that Peter wanted,  _ needed _ to be loved. Sometimes he thinks he knew he’d be the one to give Peter that.

  
  


***

  
  


“So I know Peter is  _ your _ sugar daddy, but—”

“Lydia, he’s  _ not _ my sugar daddy.” Stiles picks up a pillow from behind him and groans into it. 

“Hmm, let’s see,” Lydia says, holding up a finger, “older man,” and then another, “is gonna pay for literally everything,” and then another, “and you’re fucking him and letting him whisk you away to Europe to start a new life. Sounds like a sugar daddy to me.”

“Can we please not use those words to describe my actual father?” Malia pleads from her position on Stiles’ floor, legs propped up against his desk.

“Thank you, Malia,” Stiles says, waving a hand in her direction. “Two against one, Lydia. Drop the sugar daddy business.” 

“Fiiiiinnnee, I’m just saying… can you somehow translate that into getting me some fancy couture from Paris fashion week? As a best friend, I think I deserve some side benefits.” Lydia grins as she flops down next to Stiles on the bed. 

“You are ridiculous, Lydia Martin.” Stiles puts his arm around her, and she rests her head in the crook of it.

“I hate this. Everyone’s leaving. How can I be so happy for them, and yet I still hate this? It’s too hard to know how to feel,” Lydia laments, and Stiles knows exactly what she means. It’s the most bittersweet of times, and there’s a surreal edge to it all. Everything swirls by like it’s happening to someone else. He gets this jarring sensation sometimes, like he’s stepped out of his body and is observing from a few feet away, cataloguing everything from different vantage points. A documentarian of his own life. Everything is on a delay, and he has the distinct feeling that it’s all going to hit him like a sack of bricks to the nose when he least expects it. “What about you, Malia? Gonna use that plane ticket?”

“Well, it’s an open-ended ticket, so…” Malia shrugs, her eyes roaming the room, refusing to look at Lydia and Stiles. Stiles wonders if Peter was like her at that age. Malia’s definitely got a bit of the Hale  _ “secretly, I care, but you’re going to have to drag it out of me” _ syndrome, and Stiles doesn’t want to push her to talk about Peter too much. He just wants to make sure she knows he’s there if she needs an ear.

“Just think of how much fun we’d have annoying him together though. If he’s trapped in a car with us for a couple of hours, I guarantee we can drive him to the brink of insanity by only communicating in  _ Letterkenny  _ quotes but never explaining it. Or! Singing nothing but the soundtrack to  _ Frozen _ the entire time. Only saying words that don’t have the letter e in them! The possibilities are endless, and don’t you want to see how quickly we can make Peter Hale crack?” Stiles holds up his hands imploringly, and Malia laughs.

“I’ll think about it, but I swear to  _ god, _ if I do come to visit and I hear you two having sex? I will never forgive you. The coyote ears catch everything. Keep your dicks in your pants the entire time.”

“I swear to a vow of chastity for the duration of the visit.” Stiles places his hand on the book on his nightstand like it’s a bible, holding up his other hand as though he’s making an oath in court. 

“I don’t feel like you’ll be able to stick to that,” Lydia says, shaking her head. 

“I am not that much of slave to Peter’s—”

“You are,” Lydia and Malia declare in unison, and Stiles shrugs and laughs. He can’t really argue with that.

“How are the Sheriff and Peter getting along now?” Lydia asks.

“Good. Like…  _ weirdly _ good. When they freaking disappeared into Dad’s study, I was worried there was gonna be blood, but then they came out of there laughing?! Making  _ jokes _ with each other?! Most of which were about me, which, not great, but they were bonding so I can’t complain. I don’t know what happened, but I’m not questioning it.”

“He’s gonna miss you though,” Malia says with a rueful smile that lets Stiles know she really means  _ “I’m going to miss you too.” _

“Oh, he definitely keeps getting misty-eyed off and on. Departure day is gonna have some serious  _ Terms of Endearment- _ level tears from both of us.” Leaving his dad behind is definitely the worst of all the goodbyes, but Peter made it clear that he’d fly Stiles’ dad out if he wanted or even venture back to Beacon Hills for holidays, whatever makes Stiles comfortable. It’s not like he can’t keep in touch through phone calls and Skype. It’s not like he wasn’t going to have to leave the nest at some point. Stiles has bigger wanderlust than he ever let himself realize; Peter has sort of made that pop out in glaringly bright neon light. 

But it still sucks. It’s still going to be an adjustment no matter how much Stiles knows this is what he wants. 

“He better take care of you or I’ll rip his fucking throat out,” Malia says suddenly, popping up off the floor and sitting at the foot of the bed. She’s not crying, but her voice is quivering a bit although she’s trying to hide it, her head held high, her eyes bright and sharp and determined. “Tell him that, okay?”

“I will. You know, I think he’ll actually be pretty proud of you for threatening him,” Stiles says with a smile, opening up his arms. “Group hug! I demand it! And since I’m leaving soon, you have to do everything I say.”

Lydia tucks into his left side, Malia into his right, and he squeezes them both as close as he can.

“Stiles… I do need to breathe? Ease up a bit,” Lydia says, patting his back.

“No can do. The death grip hug is my specialty, and it’s the best kind of hug.” Stiles soaks up the warmth of his two friends, wishing he could bottle up this moment and save it forever.

  
  


***

  
  


“You have your pillow?” Stiles’ dad is standing in his son’s room, forehead wrinkled in worry, hands on his hips as he surveys the space like he can’t find what he’s looking for.

“Yes, we’ve been over this like three times,” Stiles assures him, placing a hand on his dad’s shoulder.

“Phone charger? Laptop? Laptop charger? Toothbrush? What about—”

“Daaaaddd, I’m good. And if I forgot something, I can get a new one. Stores will not cease to exist just because Stiles Stilinski failed to anticipate every possible thing he needed to pack. All the essentials are nailed down.”

“I… I feel like I’m forgetting something, you know?” 

“I know. I think that’s just how it feels when…” Stiles doesn’t want to finish that sentence. If he does, he’s pretty sure he’ll start crying, and then his dad will start crying too. “I think that’s just how it feels.”

“You’re so brave, and I’m so, so proud of everything you’ve done for your friends, for this town. You’ve done a lot of good here, but I worry about you, always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Even though I’m sad to see you go… I think it’s a good thing,” his father says, his hands a warm, reassuring weight on Stiles’ shoulders. He smiles and brushes Stiles’ hair back. “God, look at you. When the hell did you grow up?”

“I don’t know. Beacon Hills has a bit of a problem with time so there’s a very real possibility I actually did it overnight and we just didn’t notice,” Stiles jokes, trying to ward off the rising tide of emotion that’s surging into his chest, making everything tight and heavy inside.

“I like him. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, I like him too,” Stiles says with a shy smile. “What did he say to you? When you guys talked?”

The Sheriff sits down on Stiles’ bed, and Stiles takes a seat next to him.

“The thing about love is that you can’t fake it. It isn’t so much about  _ what _ he said. It’s more about… how obvious it is that you’re the center of his world. That’s the kind of thing that shines through. You shouldn’t accept anything less than that because that’s what you deserve,” his dad says, pulling Stiles into a hug. 

“I told myself I wouldn’t cry until I’d left. I just wanted the goodbye to be… I didn’t want—” Stiles chokes out, and the tears fall without him ever giving them permission to do so. Very rude of his body to do that.

“Shhhhh, come here,” his dad says, holding him closer. Stiles feels a sharp tug across his heart when he thinks about the way his father is holding him so tightly, like he’s still a little boy in the split second before he flies away to be his own person far away from the man and the place that raised him. “Goodbyes don’t have to be neat and tidy. They’re messy, and that’s just fine.”

  
  


***

  
  


“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t laugh while I’m inside you.”

“You’re doing it too!” Stiles accuses, losing himself in another fit of uncontrollable giggles, his arms around Peter’s neck. He’s seated in his lap, speared on Peter’s cock, which maybe isn’t the best time for laughter, but he can’t help it. “But just picture it. What if someone was dead ass serious about it, looked you in the eye and said—”

“Don’t say it again,” Peter protests, shaking his head as he covers his eyes with a broad palm, his chest quaking with suppressed laughter.

“Here comes the airplane,” Stiles whispers, trying for a sultry purr, but collapsing into peals of laughter once again. “And then their dick is in your mouth!”

“Why did you tell me this story and why now?!”

“Because someone else has to live with this! It’s taking up so much space in my head!”

“And you thought trying it out on me was the way to exorcise it from your brain? You are a cruel, cruel man, Stiles. You’re also officially banned from Reddit. No more scrolling r/hookuphell.” Peter chuckles into Stiles’ shoulder. It’s hilarious to think Peter used to be so stubborn about admitting that Stiles amuses him. Peter is so much looser now. He laughs and smiles more than Stiles ever thought possible. He seems… freer. Untethered by the chains of the past that used to drag him down. No expectations or concerns beyond just living with Stiles from day to day, making their world together look the way they want it to. It’s just… fun? And maybe, at the end of the day, that’s the essential truth: they’ve always been two people who enjoyed each other’s company and knew how to anticipate each other’s verbal parries. Even when they didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Back to business,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows, but that just makes them both crack up again. 

But then Stiles undulates his hips, and all traces of laughter are gone, replaced by heated moans as the head of Peter’s cock hits him in just the right spot. He moves again and again, picking up the rhythm he let falter when he told Peter that dumb story, his hands splayed across Peter’s chest, Peter’s hands steady on his hips. 

“I used to think about you like this a lot.” Peter groans, his eyes falling closed as he palms Stiles’ ass, urging him on. “What you’d look like riding me…” 

“Does it measure up to the fantasy?” Stiles leans back a little, giving Peter the full view as he bounces up and down on his dick.

“Baby, you have no idea. You look better than I ever could have imagined. So perfect,” Peter gasps, tightening his hands on Stiles’ hips as he fucks up into him, thrusting up as Stiles slams back down. Eventually, Stiles just lets go, submits to Peter holding him in place and fucking him hard because there’s nothing he loves more than that. Just Peter moving him around like a toy and taking what he wants. “Touch yourself,” Peter commands, and Stiles happily obliges, fisting his aching dick, his other hand curling around Peter’s shoulder. It doesn’t take much for him to come, making a mess of his stomach and Peter’s chest. “Stiles,” Peter moans as Stiles’ walls clench around him, squeezing Peter’s cock until Stiles can feel it jerking inside him, filling him up. Stiles’ soft dick gives a feeble twitch as he thinks about Peter’s come inside him, the way he knows it’ll be leaking out of him soon, a wet, sticky trickle down his thigh.

Stiles loves being a mess every bit as much as Peter loves making him one.

“My good boy,” Peter murmurs, kissing Stiles’ neck, his cheek, his open mouth, still panting as they both come down. 

Stiles nuzzles into Peter’s neck, smiling as he turns his head to gaze down at the land stretching beyond the balcony, the sun setting on the Italian countryside. Stiles couldn’t resist making fun of Peter a little for taking them here.

_ “Are you trying to say I’m the Elio to your Oliver? Just know that I’m not gonna fuck a peach, you weirdo.” _

_ “Have I told you lately that you’re a brat?” _

_ “Twice today.” _

Stiles looks at the lush, verdant land that surrounds them, fruit trees and warm wind and croaking frogs by the pond, everything ripe and full and beautiful, and he knows it’s the perfect choice to kick off this weird, nomadic year. Peter just fucked him on a balcony in the middle-of-nowhere Italy while the goddamn sky was fading into purplish-pink hues. It’s  _ beyond _ perfect. It feels like a literal dream.

They’re going to France too; their smutty European vision just includes a lot more, and Stiles can’t wait to see where it takes them. 

“I haven’t really been much of anywhere, but… Dad and I went camping in Big Sur once, a few months after my mom died. I think he thought going somewhere that’s… removed from everything, no cell signal, no grocery stores, just nature, would help.” Stiles closes his eyes, his arms threading around Peter’s back.

“Did it?” Peter kisses his shoulder and hugs him close.

“Yeah… a little. It was nice to see him away from all of it. Felt like he came back to himself a bit, you know? He was still sad, but… something shifted. It was a good trip for him.”

“For him?” Peter remarks, not missing that bit of semantic nuance.

“For me, it was just a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“That we were running? That there was something to run away  _ from? _ All that stillness and isolation just didn’t work for me. I wanted noise. I wanted life. I wanted to be back in Beacon Hills where at least I could find things to distract me.”

“Why are you thinking about this right now?” Peter rubs gentle circles into Stiles’ back, a gesture Stiles knows well by now. It means Peter’s concerned about him but doesn’t want to prod too much, just wants Stiles to know he’s here and he’s listening. 

“Because I realized something,” Stiles says, pulling back to look at Peter. Peter is so gorgeous in this light, the sunset framing every angle of his face, his eyes sparkling and alive. Stiles loves him so much, he sometimes thinks he can feel it breaking him apart, like he’s so full of it, he’s slowly bursting at the seams. It’s overwhelming in the most wonderful way. “There’s a difference between running away and moving on. When you first told me you wanted to take me away, I thought it would be like Big Sur. Like running away from something you can’t  _ really _ run from instead of dealing with it. But it’s not. This feels different. It feels good,  _ so _ good. Like I’m moving onto the next thing instead of standing still and letting life happen to me. Like we decided to  _ make _ life happen and do it together, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, dear Stiles.” Peter beams at Stiles like he holds the answers to every single one of life’s questions, and Stiles understands because he feels the same way. Stiles holds him close, his fingers in Peter’s hair, his nose buried in his neck. 

He feels Peter smiling against his skin, and it warms him more thoroughly than any sun ever could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the fandom has quite a lot of "bad friend Scott McCall," but I prefer him more "himbo meathead who figures it out eventually" haha so I'm sorry if you're not a fan of that but I wanted a little heart to heart with those boys for the send off. 
> 
> Also, I hope it doesn't seem like Stiles is scared to tell his dad because he thinks he'll revert to shovel talk dad of yore haha. He knows pretty well by then that the Sheriff is on board with Peter. It's just hard to do the big reveals in life with the people you care about, and when you're a champion over-thinker? You build it up in your head, even if the outcomes you're imagining are just... not in line with reality at all.
> 
> You are of course free to headcanon this Steter's future however you want, but for me, I imagine Stiles doesn't enroll after that year deferment. :D I am really sad there's not a subreddit for hilarious/bad hookup stories because I would eat that shit up way more than the depressing r/relationships and AITA posts that everyone tortures themselves with. Idk why, but it popped into my head while writing this, and I thought it would be the perfect silly thing for Stiles to be addicted to reading. And I just really wanted a scene of them laughing together in that couple way that happens when you know each other well and can relax enough to be silly as fuck during sex? I love that for them.
> 
> Thank you to all who have read this fic and all who have commented. Was really nice/unexpected to have my first Steter fic be warmly received, and while I'm not sure if I'll write another since I *told* myself I wouldn't... I do have another idea for one and there are a lot of notes for this fic that I would love to use for future Steter incarnations.
> 
> If you want to enable me with that fic idea or yell about other things Steter, I can be found here: [punchedbymarkesmith](https://punchedbymarkesmith.tumblr.com/)
> 
> It's been good, it's been real, it's been real good, friends! Be well. <3


End file.
